An Extra Dividend
by Medea Smyke
Summary: He loved her, he just couldn't stand her. Gale explores the perils of answering personal ads, working over Madge Undersee, and tracking a criminal. Also, there's cake. MadgeXGale, post-MJ AU.
1. Dear Friend

**A/N: **Hello, welcome to some new Gadge. :D The rough draft of _AED _is complete. I will attempt to polish and publish a new chapter every week, most likely on Mondays or Tuesdays. I hope you enjoy what I believe is a happier Post-Mockingjay alternative. :D

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**Dear Friend**

_"It is an extra dividend when you like the girl you've fallen in love with." Clark Gable_

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><p><strong>The Daily Bread Personals<strong>:

Savvy career girl wishes to correspond on social and political subjects anonymously with an intelligent, cultivated, young man. Address: Dear Friend, Post Office Box 237, District 13.

…

_To: PO Box 237_

_Return Address: PO Box 405_

Dear "Friend,"

My mother says that I am an intelligent, sympathetic, young man, but you will have to judge for yourself. What are your interests? I love to go on Coke dates with my mother, wind balls of wool, and take intimate rides in the elevator. I own a desktop encyclopedia and dictionary. If you will give me the pleasure of a reply, that will make you a real, fine lady.

Signed,

Your "friend"

…

_To: PO Box 237_

_Re(blot) (blot)dress: PO (blot) 38_

Dear (blot)

(blotting) to you from (blot). I am interested in getting to (blot) you. A (blot) like you must have lots to (blot) about. I, myself, am a (blot), with knowledge of (blots), (blot) and (blotting). As the (blot) say, where two (blots) meet, (blots) will (blot). Hope to (blot) from you soon.

Signed,

Your (blot)

…

_To: PO Box 237_

_Return Address: PO Box 451_

Dear 237,

I read your ad yesterday. I was the checking the listings for a used percolator. The paper fell open to this very page. I paused over it. Couldn't tell you why, but I couldn't get it out of my head. I'm not sure that anything I have to write will be of interest to you, but I know a few things and I've seen a great deal more. Will discuss anything. Particularly enjoy political debates.

Signed,

A stranger

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued<strong>

**A/N**: As for canon, I have taken what I want from Mockingjay and pointedly forgotten the rest. From here on out, the story will _not _be written in letter form. This story is based almost directly on _The Shop Around the Corner_, the film starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullivan. The original play was written by Nikolaus Laszlo and belongs to him. While the majority of the dialogue and prose will be original to me, occasionally I will be directly quoting from the script. It's really too delicious. The cast of the Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. She ruined them in Mockingjay, so she can have 'em.


	2. The Aftermath is Secondary

**A/N: **Despite nearly being thwarted by FFN fail, here is the shiny, new chapter! Thanks a bunch to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! It's fabulous to see all the Gadge enthusiasm. :D

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

**The Aftermath is Secondary**

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><p>Somewhere on Level 6 in District 13, there is a snug flat owned by Peeta and Katniss Mellark. Soft light from the evening lamps illuminates the single space designated for the living and dining room. The walls are full of artwork, the couches hide a few pairs of Peeta's dirty socks and the hallway closet contains Katniss's hunting gear.<p>

The half wall supporting the kitchen counter reveals the overflow of pastries piled on every available flat surface. Three people huddle around the vestiges of a dinner, dirty plates and silverware pushed to the side of the table to make room for presents. Packages and envelopes form a pile, sent from family, but mostly from well-wishers whom they've never met.

The war ended five years ago. Katniss and Peeta grew up, then married three years ago to date.

"And the last card is from…," Peeta drawls as he flips the envelope over to read the return address label. "The Odairs." He smiles at Katniss and tears open the envelope. "Annie just had another baby. A girl, I think," he says to Madge while handing Katniss the card to read first. She leans over the kitchen table so that Madge can see, as well.

Katniss opens the card impassively, frowning with suspicion when the middle unfolds into a homemade pop-up of the Odair family grinning winningly at her. It looks like they're jumping out of a cake. "Happy Anniversary," she reads. "Hope you're as happy as we are. Love, Finnick, Annie, Finlee and Aurora."

Peeta takes back the card and immediately inspects the inner workings of the pop-up like it's absolutely fascinating. From an artistic standpoint, maybe it is. But Madge wonders how valuable Finnick Odair's scrawling signature makes that card. Even though the old Capitol fell five years ago, some things in Panem haven't changed. Like Finnick's heathen god status.

"And now it's time for my gift," says Madge. She stands up from the table to retrieve a package hidden in the deep pocket of her coat, which is hanging by the Mellark's door.

"Madge, you didn't have to bring anything," Katniss protests, taking the package like it might explode. And Peeta adds, "We're just glad you could celebrate our anniversary with us."

Madge laughs, pushing her long blond hair back over her shoulder. "That's what you both have said for the last three years," she says as she sits back down next to Katniss. She slides the box over, making Katniss take it. Katniss looks at the box a little nervously. "Don't worry, it's not another pin," Madge jokes. She nudges Katniss's arm. "Open it."

Katniss unwraps the fragile, gold paper carefully so that it barely tears where Madge taped it together. She instinctively passes it to Peeta. Madge feels a pang of something like longing when she sees the unconscious connection Peeta and Katniss have to each other's needs and desires; it reminds her that she's missing out. Madge subconsciously slips her hand into her skirt pocket, feeling the crumpled corner of an envelope. Perhaps she's not completely missing out.

Peeta usurps the paper into his stash of fascinating artifacts from this evening's gifts and cards while Katniss fiddles with getting the box open. He has ribbons, tiny boxes and lots of wrapping paper. Madge wouldn't be surprised to see the wrapping paper in one of his new art pieces in a month or two. He'll use anything he can find.

Katniss finally conquers the packing tape holding the box together. Madge watches both of their faces with satisfaction when the box opens beneath Katniss's fingers and she gently lifts a novelty photo frame from the soft tissue paper. Peeta leans over her shoulder to see better. They both gape at the video footage of them holding hands in the woods just outside of the Underground. The video begins with an old-time movie reel with their names and wedding date. Then it reveals the woods outside of Thirteen. Fall leaves and swatches of the pale autumn sky fill the background. Katniss and Peeta walk down a leaf-choked trail, turning slightly toward one another to talk. The sun hits them just right – like they're glowing. Katniss says something with her characteristic frown, but whatever she says makes Peeta laugh. A suggestion of a pleased smile teases over Katniss's face. He kisses her cheek. Then the video loops to play the scene again.

Peeta glances up after watching several loops. "This is amazing. Who took the shot?"

"Effie," Madge answers pleasantly. "She's always under foot these days."

"I remember this walk," Katniss murmurs. "I didn't know anyone was taking videos though."

Peeta laughs. "You're surprised?"

Katniss rolls her eyes. "I shouldn't be, should I?"

Madge didn't consider how sensitive Katniss might be about unknown recordings. Until now she only thought about how cute they were in it. "I'm the only one besides Effie and Haymitch to see it," she tries to reassure Katniss. "She took it for her memoir or whatever that new hobby is of hers. I asked if I could have the file," she explains.

"It is a beautiful shot," Katniss replies, waving off Madge's implied apology. "Thank you."

"This calls for cake," Peeta announces, scooting his chair away from the table to retrieve the grand finale to the evening.

That's Peeta's post-war hobby. He bakes, paints, folds paper, and leaves messes all over the apartment to drive Katniss crazy. Apparently, the rebellion's gratitude toward the other half of the Mockingjay compelled them to give him a Victor income and upkeep, even though the Games have been abolished. At least that's how officials spin it on paper. The truth is, Peeta's useless to the military with his leg injury, the kitchens in District 13 are over-staffed, and any other employer worries about the young man's mental health after his months spent in the Games and as a prisoner of war. Katniss and Peeta are essentially unofficial and over-aged wards of the state. So, everything calls for cake, in Peeta's opinion, otherwise the fruit of his labor will all go to waste. Madge has become immensely popular in her office just for helping take some of the baked goods off of Peeta's hands.

He brings back a triple-layer red velvet cake with raspberry filling and chocolate ganache frosting that looks like it came right off a gourmet display in the former Capitol. Madge's mouth waters just looking at it. He cuts three generous pieces, handing them around.

The piece is far too large, but that doesn't stop Madge. Her sweet tooth, which she no doubt inherited from a long line of confectioners on her mother's side, seems to grow every year. She is in her happy place until she swallows the last bite. "Peeta, you've outdone yourself," she says through an oncoming cake coma. "This dinner was amazing. You two should celebrate your anniversary more often."

"My birthday's coming up," Katniss says without inflection. "Peeta's going to make us do this all over again."

Peeta and Madge grin conspiratorially over Katniss's head.

"Thanks for celebrating it with us," he tells Madge, slipping his arm around Katniss. "We wish our families were here too. District 13's turned into a lonely place since the war ended."

Their minds head in the same basic direction. After the war, Panem was barely inhabitable. Clean up took months and month, let alone rebuilding. Three years ago, the refugees began their exodus back to their regional homes. Peeta's family hadn't survived the firebombing, but the Everdeens and the Hawthornes returned to District 12, though reconstruction crews still clear debris and wreckage from the Seam.

For Katniss and Peeta, there is no returning to Twelve in the near future. The war may have ended five years ago, but pockets of Capitol loyalists still cling to the edges of Panem, occasionally popping up for quick, violent skirmishes with the new, relatively weak forces of Panem's new central government headed by President Paylor. Those loyalists haven't forgotten the Mockingjay and they cling to revenge, since they'll never have victory. Until District 12 can be secured, Peeta and Katniss wait out their days as best they can in the sewers of Thirteen where they have protection. At least they let Katniss out for some air on a weekly basis. Her hunting trips keep her active and give her a modicum of sanity. Even though she's tailed by security the entire time.

For Madge Undersee there is no home to return to in Twelve for many reasons. She still has bad dreams about the carnage – though it's mostly the sounds that frighten her. Anything that sounds remotely like an alarm, or the smack of a book dropped on the floor, makes her jump at best – hyperventilate at worst. The first Tuesday of the month became a recurring horror for her, when at 10 a.m. without fail, the Underground held safety drills – which included sirens. Fortunately, those drills ended.

Despite the triggers, though, she thinks she might be able to bear returning to Twelve if she felt her father could. But that would be too much for him.

Katniss gives Peeta the frame to find a place for it in the living room, which is really just the section of this room walled off by the couch. He sets it on the coffee table. They admire it a little more, then Peeta comes back to the table. He picks up a bottle that they pushed aside earlier for the gifts.

"More wine, Madge?"

Madge tucks a long strand of blonde hair behind her ear, gauging the lightness in her head. "I'd better not, Peeta," she says. "I need to be able to push the correct buttons in the elevator."

He smiles. "Suit yourself. Katniss?"

Katniss pushes her glass toward her husband for him to fill it. "Why not? I'm not going anywhere tonight."

Peeta waggles his eyebrows at her. Katniss suppresses a smile. There's a spark in their eyes, which tells Madge her welcome might be ending soon. It is their anniversary, after all.

Madge feels a stab of jealousy again. Being with Katniss and Peeta makes her look at her life, and reminds her of another milestone she's missing. To have someone to hold onto at night and look forward to seeing in the morning and when she comes home from work. Instead, she sees her life stretched out in front of her, never bending, never going anywhere interesting. Her life only consists of her job and her father, she thinks glumly. Then she brightens – she has _his_ letters…whoever he is. And lately those letters have taken an interesting detour away from the same old politics they've been debating.

Madge glances at the clock on the wall, crowded around by Peeta's paintings, while her friends sip wine and pick at the ganache frosting. It's later than she thought, nearly ten o'clock, which means her dad's been home by himself for almost thirteen hours. She hates to do that to him on a Friday night. And well, there's the feeling that Peeta and Katniss have more anniversary celebrating to do without Madge.

And she hasn't had a chance to check the mail yet…

Madge folds her napkin, setting it on the table. "I should probably call it a night. Dad's at home by himself," she explains, using her father as the complete excuse for leaving.

Katniss and Peeta look appropriately sorry to see her go as she rises from the table, but not enough to protest.

"Bring your dad a piece of cake." Peeta cuts what appears to be a quarter portion of the cake and sets it on a plate. He heads back into the kitchen for something to wrap over it.

As Madge pulls her jacket on, Peeta rambles on about her gift to them and Katniss holds the cake plate for her. They all enjoyed a chance to visit, but the Mellarks subtly help her out the door into the darkened hallway.

Cake in hand, Madge follows the row of dim lights. The hallways never completely darken at night, both to avoid accidents and discourage vandalism, but the lights follow a timer set to mimic the patter of the sun. If only they were heat lamps, like the sun. A draft chills the skin on the back of her neck, where the collar of her coat gapes loosely. The aged boilers and AC units make it impossible to evenly heat and cool the underground bunker that comprises District 13, necessitating the use of coats, even hats. She grips the collar with her hand. When she bought this jacket a few years ago, it was almost too tight. Now she looks like she used to when she played dress up with her mother's things. The happy effect of stress on her body.

Her shoes make a hollow sound against the rough floor of the corridor. Madge tries not to run to the elevator, suddenly sure that if she rushes, the letter won't be waiting for her. And what if her father forgot to go to the post office like he promised? He's been so forgetful – she knows it wasn't fair to ask him. But she just _had_ to have the letter tonight of all nights.

She steps into the next available lift and pushes the button for Level 9. She's tempted to eat the cake herself as a sort of consolation prize for how slow the lift is moving. But then she thinks about her father and how much he'd enjoy it, effectively canceling her craving.

On Level 9, Madge takes a left out of the elevator and swallows down a different lump of worry rising in her throat. She can leave Dad for over twelve hours. She knows she can.

She knows she _could_. Last year. The adjusted prescription should be working, but who knows what she'll find when she opens the door? An overflowing bathtub? A smoke-filled kitchen? Or worse, the door wide open, her father nowhere to be seen, wandering the halls.

Madge arrives at her unit, finding the door perfectly closed and no smoke billowing out from under it. Madge fumbles with the keypad that releases the door. She crosses through the kitchen into the living room. To her relief, Henry Undersee is reading quietly in the chair under the table lamp, bathing him in a pool of soft, yellow light. He glances up at her over his glasses and smiles. "Is that cake?"

Madge smiles back timidly. "All yours." She crosses the kitchen to the living room and plants a kiss on his bare head, grateful that he's here and lucid. "I hope you weren't too bored without me."

Mr. Undersee pushes his glasses farther up on his nose. "Nonsense. I've been reading this fascinating book on Panem's antebellum architecture that Ms. Trinket gave me. She even signed the title page. What do you think of that?" he says with a hint of irony that Madge had been used to growing up. Hearing it now makes her heart squeeze tightly. She hopes it means her dad is pulling out of this depression he's been in since the firebombing – the night he'll always see as his penultimate failure. The final failure…well, she's not even sure she knows what he considers his ultimate to be. Maybe her mother's inability to deal with the transition to Thirteen and the shock to her own body? That was six years ago, her mother's death. They were still fighting the war, so Mrs. Undersee never got to experience new Panem and its liberties. And that's when Madge became the head of the household.

"Were you waiting up for me?" she asks, taking a seat on his armrest. She leans over to look at the pictures on the page of old, sagging Justice Buildings.

He closes the book and peers up at her through the lamplight. "Perhaps."

"You shouldn't have." Madge admonishes, frowning. "I was only with Peeta and Katniss."

Mr. Undersee's forehead crinkles. "Well, Madge, I wanted to give you a message. Two actually," he says. Madge's heart rate spikes. _He got it_. But she's distracted by what he tells her next. "Haymitch Abernathy called while you were out. He wanted to tell you that some fellow was fired. Vadas something?"

Madge gapes at her father. Nobody ever gets fired by the committee or Haymitch. They just freeze people out until they can't stand it anymore – so she's heard. Can her father really mean the office manager had been fired? "Mr. Vadas? Did Haymitch say anything else?"

"Oh, he mentioned something about a potential promotion." The skin around her father's eyes crinkles with merriment as he teases her. "For a certain intern."

"Haymitch said that?" she gasps.

"It was implied."

Madge stands up, pacing to the coffee table. "Should I call him back, Dad?"

Mr. Undersee glances at his wristwatch. "I don't think so. If our friend, the district drunk, hasn't changed his habits all that much, I'd say he'll be out of commission until next week. He already sounded nose deep in his cup over the phone," says Mr. Undersee thoughtfully. "I can't say I relish the idea of you speaking to him when he's like that."

"I'm used to it by now." Madge collapses onto the couch in a daze, letting her father take the plate of cake away from her before a mess ensues.

This phone call could be her big break. On Monday, she'll request an audience with Haymitch to schedule an interview.

"Do you think I'd make a good manager?" she asks through her haze.

"You can do anything you put your mind to," Mr. Undersee replies around a bite of Peeta's cake. "You're very bright."

Madge allows herself to accept this compliment, although she realizes it's an automatic parental response to think one's child is gifted. _She_ knows she can handle it if they'd only give her the chance. After all, she pulled herself out of nothing – and for that she's proud. It took longer than she wanted, but she saved the money that she made waitressing at the Broken Oar and used it to take classes on administration and business management. She has her father's example and career background to give her a foundation. He's even helpful when she has a question on the nights she can get him to talk. Eventually, the classes led to her current internship with the Department of District Development, where she's being primed for management of the District Outreach. It's not exactly her area of expertise, but she's hungry to finally achieve something more exciting than lumpless oatmeal four days in a row. Her kitchen skills only barely extend beyond boiling cuts of meat until they look done, since the electric ovens scare her, and opening cans of vegetables. She sees visions of success. She could finally afford to send her father to the community center for seminars and socializing. She could buy new clothes and start saving for a piano. She can order _takeout!_

Madge shakes herself back into reality when she realizes that her father polished off every last crumb of cake. "Dad, that had to be enough for three people," she scolds. "You'll be sick."

Mr. Undersee looks regretfully at the empty plate, sorry, no doubt, that there isn't more. "Three very small people," he concludes. "I'm quite tall, Margaret. I count as two, at least."

Madge laughs through her nose, and then she remembers to ask. "Dad, you said you had two messages for me." She sits up straight, eager. "Did you collect the mail?"

"I did." He pulls a small, dirty envelope from his shirt pocket. "I didn't steam it open, but it took considerable strength of will to leave it alone."

"Thank you, Daddy," Madge gushes, snatching the letter. She flips it around and around in her hand, studying each pen stroke and the grain on the paper. "Mud stains," she says happily, though she couldn't give a reason for enthusing over it.

Mr. Undersee's eyebrow arches. "Again? Madge, are you sure he's from the Underground?"

"But the post office box…"

"Perhaps it's forwarded to him somewhere," Mr. Undersee offers. "How else would someone perpetually write letters in the middle of a puddle? I bet he's a soldier. One of those strapping, cavalier types," he teases. "This DF fellow can be quite incendiary. Don't you ever ask?"

He can be incendiary. And that's what she likes about him, Dear Friend, as she's come to think of him. She's always been attracted to that type. "And find out something as trivial his day job?" Madge scoffs. "Of course not." She prefers to keep him on a pedestal. Someone to look up to and dream about. Thinking about his current employ would only taint the image.

"I see your point," Mr. Undersee says dryly. "Why find out something practical like if he's employed, a lunatic, or a mud dweller?"

Madge frowns at her father. "None of that matters. I'm only interested in his mind," she says loftily.

"His mind? I gathered from the last letter that he's barely literate," Mr. Undersee replies. "He writes in fragments."

Madge gapes, irritated by her father's insult to her friend's intelligence. "Grammar is secondary. It's the sentiment that counts." She turns the envelope so that her father can see the penmanship of the address line. "And he has a very strong hand," she adds. Mr. Undersee's eyebrows rise, causing Madge to blush.

"There are some details a father doesn't want to know, my dear."

"I meant his _handwriting_. It shows conviction of character," She sniffs with wounded pride. "I wouldn't know anything about what you're thinking."

"I see." Mr. Undersee hands Madge the empty cake plate to wash. "Well, I'll leave you alone with your letter. No doubt you'll want some privacy for your raptures over his fine mind. Good night, Madge."

"Goodnight, Dad."

When the door to her father's bedroom closes, Madge sets down the cake plate to attack the envelope. She stops herself just as her finger brushes the top fold of the lined paper he always uses. Madge eyes the cake plate with disfavor, then comes to a decision. She sets down the envelope, then runs the plate over to the sink where her father has left a small mess. She's not going to bother with that tonight.

Madge picks up her letter from the coffee table, then she slips into her bedroom. Madge gets ready for bed as quickly as possible, throwing on her oldest pajamas and sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. Then she slips into bed, nestles down into the covers and relaxes. Now she can fully enjoy her letter without any nighttime duties hanging over her head.

Madge slowly slips the letter out from the envelope, automatically counting the thin sheets of paper to see how long the letter is this time. Usually just one page or two pages, but sometimes he'll write three. Part of her doesn't want to read it at all, because right now the letter could say _anything_, be as long as she wants it to be. But as soon as she reads the first line, she knows it's going to end and at the last line she'll be back where she started, longing for the next one.

Curiosity wins out. She unfolds the yellow, lined paper and begins to read.

_Dear friend… _

…

_Over the river and through the woods…a week later…_

The crew surveying the Wigh River Valley reached their base camp along Flint Creek around sunset. The last week they've been standing knee-deep in creek beds and climbing ravines, trying to map out the forests north of known Panem. For some reason, the former Capitol didn't make much use of this wilderness. Perhaps their resources were too limited to maintain an iron hold on the districts and expand further? Gale doesn't know for sure. But he does know that now it is prime land for important natural resources the districts need to rebuild themselves. Unfortunately, what is good for them is also good for hiding Jabberjay loyalists who aren't ready to retire peacefully. Gale may not be a soldier anymore, but those skills are still useful when it comes to keeping his people alive on the job.

Gale's crew is one of many surveying parties canvassing the wilderness. Their job is to collect data on the lay of the land, the natural boundaries, elevations, noting good buildings sites, the natural resources available…and a new task – cataloging ruin sites. This place wasn't always empty forests. Long ago, there were towns, roads, a civilization that probably dated back to the pre-Panem nations. They left a trace of themselves and all that information is going back to Thirteen. Gale's been instructed not to disturb these sites so that professionals can eventually follow to study the findings.

But Gale's trying to forget all of that and enjoy his first night off in weeks. After he takes care of some final business, he's done for the week. With work and with worrying. It's Gusterson and Dewey's week for patrolling the camp to keep the guerrillas out. A crew out in Saddleback Ridge got attacked last month, half the crew ghosted. They're getting bolder or more desperate, Gale isn't sure which, but he's not about to let them get the slip on his crew. The surveyors were nothing but a bunch of geometry geeks when they first started out together. Gale whipped them into shape, taught them how to defend themselves and hold a rifle as well as a tripod. Might as well put his experience in the revolution to good use. Besides, it keeps him trim.

Gale steps out of the latrine just outside of the camp. It's the first toilet he's used in several weeks. He rinses his hands from the spigot on the rain barrel they raised on a platform for the purpose, noting that they need some more soap. His ears perk up when a truck rumbles into the other side of camp, disturbing the evening quiet within the trees. The first Friday of the month is always supply day when the crew returns to camp to regroup, rest, and record the data they've collected to be sent back to HQ. That truck from the fort down the way brings food, supplies…and mail.

Gale grabs his gear and tripod, which he left leaning against the outhouse and strides past a string of canvas cabins. The lanky, long-haired topographer who acts as Gale's second is already heading toward him.

"Here you go, boss," says McNair, handing him a box filled with what Gale deems an extra pile of paperwork. He takes it from McNair, switching him the box for the backpack and tripod he's carrying.

"Thanks, McNair," he says. "Take the gear back to my cabin and get the computer booted up."

"Will do."

"And McNair…"

"Yeah, boss?"

Gale lowers his voice. "Take Gusterson's flask away before he heads out, will you?"

"Yessir." McNair nods once, causing his greasy hair to swing forward, then heads off with the gear.

Gale takes the box with him to the fire ring in the middle of the camp. Gussey's nursing the fire and trying to keep a pot of beans from burning or boiling over. Gale sifts through the mail out here where most of his crew have gathered, handing out whatever came for them. McNair joins them, tossing Gale a silver hip flask with a strange look in his eyes. Gale blinks and the look is gone, so he just hands McNair a stack of manila envelopes and decides to forget what he saw. McNair's engrossed in the envelopes that are too heavily sealed to be anything but skin magazines anyway. Gale doesn't ask. As long as they're doing their job, he gets that they're nine hundred miles from civilization and the nearest fort is over at Bottom Up Creek, a day's ride away.

Besides, Gale has his own solution for the loneliness. He stares at his own pile of mail guiltily. There's that pink envelope waiting for him at the bottom. He knows he needs to read the official letters first. And he needs to transfer today's calculations from the data collector to the computer before one of his crewmates has the chance to goof it up or erase the memory, heaven forbid.

In the end, his duty as the managing field surveyor wins. Gale hunkers down on the ground, with his back propped up on a rotting log they rolled closer to the fire. He opens a fat envelope from the District Outreach Committee, which contains a reply to a report he sent out a month ago. He flips through pages of unbroken paragraphs and five syllable words that mean nothing to him. Gale shakes his head and pulls out a small notebook where he notes missing supplies from their shipments and random drop-offs he didn't request to see how it matches up to the spreadsheet attached to the end of the letter. He shakes his head again, then puts both the letter and the notebook back in his pocket for later.

It's the first Friday night they've had free where it hasn't snowed or rained. The fire's warm, the birds haven't quite gone to bed yet, and someone else is worrying about the threat of rogue Jabs. Gussey hands him a tin plate nearly overflowing with his special recipe of beans, bacon and onions. Gale suspects that the packages he receives every month contain whiskey. But as long as the whiskey ends up in his recipes and not in a flask while he's working, Gale won't say a word. It's Gusterson he has to worry about. But then, Gusterson brews his own juice from God knows what.

Gale shovels some food into his mouth and lets the background noise of the survey crew talking shop wash over him. He opens a letter from his mother first, making sure that everything's all right on that end. Rory's getting serious with Primrose Everdeen. No surprise there. Vick got an apprenticeship with the same carpenter who's teaching Rory the skills of the trade. Mrs. Hawthorne writes that they'd like to open a business together eventually. Posy's doing well in school – better than any of her boys did, Hazelle points out. It's hard for Gale to think of Posy growing up. That always makes him feel homesick, even though he's twenty-five and hasn't lived with his family for three of those years. He sets the letter aside, promising himself to write back soon.

He selects the next card, a large one with extra postage on it. He opens it up and the middle flies out at him with a picture of Katniss and Peeta. Gale almost drops the paper contraption. _Hell's teeth!_ He doesn't need Mellark's sappy mug jumping out of a card to scare him. He picks the pop-up card up off the ground and studies it. Peeta pressed some shiny gold foil to the card where their wedding rings should be. The firelight reflects off of the gold, making it stand out above anything else on the card. Figures.

"Something wrong?" McNair asks, trying to peek at the card.

Gale shakes his head, closing the card. "No, just some friends having fun."

Next to McNair, Bertha belches her approval of Gussey's beans then wipes her large hand over her mouth.

"Geez, do you kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?" McNair grouses.

She smirks. "Amongst other things."

_Hell's teeth_. Gale cringes and pretends he's engrossed in the letters. If she wasn't such a natural genius at geometry, he'd send her and her foul mouth back to the fort at Bottom Up to join her boyfriend and spare the rest of them.

"What are you reading?" asks McNair. "Letter from your family in Twelve?"

"Yeah. And a card from my friends in Thirteen," he says tiredly. "They celebrated their wedding anniversary a little while ago." As if the exact date isn't branded in his head. Thankfully, he'd already made his escape to the woods before that day came, so he had an excuse for his obvious absence.

McNair grunts. "Yeah? How long?"

"Three years."

He shovels beans into his mouth, chews and says, "Poor shmucks," giving Gale a wide view of masticated beans.

Gale doesn't bother trying to laugh at that one. He's tired of living with manly men and manlier women. Never thought he'd think it, but it's true. He got sick of the farting and bachelor jokes a year ago, _at least_. And as much as McNair claims to enjoy the solitary life, Gale refrains from pointing out his total dependence on those magazines. He might hate living with women, but he doesn't mind staring at them. But maybe only Gale sees the contradiction. He flips the postcard over to the back and reads again.

_Gale, _

_Wish you were here. _

_Katniss & Peeta_

_p.s. The card was his idea. Don't blame me. _

From anyone else, this generic message wouldn't make a dent. But he can tell that Peeta spent hours on the card and Katniss wrote the message. And with Katniss, you're not going to get anything but the simplest form of the truth. They miss him. They. A unit. The Twitter-Pated Two. Whatever.

He's got to work on this bitterness thing. It's just that he wears it so well.

Unfortunately, he doesn't want to read what's in the pink envelope when he's feeling sour like this. The handwriting on the envelope might as well be a pair of eyes watching him hopefully, wondering why he's ignoring it.

Gale finishes off the cold beans at the bottom of his pan and dumps it in a bucket of water along with other dirty dishes. He has to go back to his cabin and hook up the data collector to the office computers to download the calculations. Maybe he'll be in a better mood when that's done.

Of course, it just goes to show how wrong a guy can be.

Gale's cabin is a low, rectangular affair made out of canvas like everyone else's. The tin roof started sporting moss a few years ago. The place is a hotel for midges, mice and spiders most of the time. Still, it's better than the cold ground.

McNair must have left the light on and the door unlocked when he left. The folks on his crew are a bunch of cave trolls, Gale mentally grouses as he pushes through the door with his box of mail. He throws it on the table next to the computer and data processor, noting the tripod hanging properly on the wall. At least McNair knows how to take care of their equipment.

The sound of his cot groaning in the far corner behind him causes Gale to turn quickly. He stops short like there's a glass wall in front of him and he just smacked right into it. Johanna Mason Heavensbee sits on his bed reading a newspaper. That's right. Heavensbee. As in Plutarch, her husband. Thirty year difference. If that doesn't make you want to chop off a vital organ, well.

No wonder McNair gave him a funny look. He orders magazines. Gale apparently gets the real thing in the mail.

Except he doesn't want this particular female. He hopes she comes with a return delivery label.

Johanna snaps the newspaper once and folds it back into quarters, tossing it aside. She looks the same. Short hair. Sharp eyes. The suggestion that she might bury an axe in your chest at any moment, literally or figuratively. The cabin is completely silent for about two seconds before they start talking fast, like a stack of cards being shuffled.

"Long time no see," she starts.

Gale frowns. "For good reason."

"You haven't forgiven me, have you?"

Gale's eyes narrow as she approaches a dangerous topic. "But I haven't tossed you out either," he snipes.

Johanna laughs bitterly. "Is that the best we can hope for?"

"Yep."

"Gale." Johanna drops the cynical act to try a different tack: pleading. Her shoulders hunch and her eyes are round with a hint of helplessness. Unfortunately, Gale remembers seeing her Games. "Please let's just—"

"What are you doing here?"

Jo has the decency to look chagrined. "I'm on a mission for my husband."

Gale grimaces and carefully skirts around the bed, needing to move.

"Stop that," she snaps.

"What?"

"Acting like I have the plague."

"Don't you?"

She snarls at him. He used to like that once. Now it seems childish.

Gale perches on his dresser across from the cot. He'd climb out the window if he could, but the last person he wants to turn his back on is Johanna Mason Heavensbee. She's already stabbed him there once before he left on this surveying gig, when she went off the deep end and ran off with Plutarch…while she was supposedly seeing _Gale. _"Well?" he snaps. "What do you want?"

"To talk," she says, her voice flat like day old rum and coke.

On the Gale-Jo scale of bad ideas, talking might top them all. He'd rather hear Bertha's deepest darkest secrets – and he's pretty sure that would involve unpronounceable bacteria.

But then, he wants to know why Plutarch would send his wife to visit her ex-boyfriend.

"About what?" he grudgingly asks.

"A job."

Gale locks his stern eyes on her. "I have a job," he points out.

"Another job," she grouses, then says stiffly, "Come back to work in Thirteen."

Gale folds his arms across his chest, suddenly aware that he's been wearing the same shirt for three days in a row. "Why should I?" he asks.

"The perks, of course." Jo smirks. "How about a job that doesn't involve belching contests, cold beans and that ghastly smell?"

Fair enough.

"Working for your husband?" Gale asks sullenly. "That's what he wants?"

Jo leans back on her hands, sinking a little more into the mattress. Gale's curious now and she knows it. And he knows she knows it. He decides to stare at a knot in the wood far above her head.

"Oh, it gets better," she says with a low tease in her voice. "Working for Haymitch, who works for my husband."

Gale snorts. "Forget it."

She sits up straight, losing the seductive tone she was going for. "With the possibility of advancement, Gale. You could be your own boss in a few years," she says crisply.

"Why me?" Gale asks suspiciously.

"Because of this." Johanna holds up a worn envelope, the one he sent a month ago. "You wrote to the District Outreach committee about the situation out here and now everyone's in uproar over missing supplies and phony orders. The department needs someone with experience – someone who's actually lived out here and who they know is on their side. They need you to keep things from deteriorating further."

Gale scowls at the wall. "Look, I just told them what I saw. It's their job to get to the bottom of it. The problem is on your husband's end. I'm just a field surveyor."

"But you understand this end." She points out the window at the endless expanse of trees. "And the sort of people who are out here. Come on, Gale. You're not going to let the past get in the way of doing the right thing?"

Gale gives her one hell of a glare. "The right thing? You're going to talk to _me_ about the right thing?" he grouses. "You treat me like I'm some kind of fling and run off with a guy old enough to be Santa Claus?"

Johanna recoils. "Look, I made some mistakes. I never pretended to be perfect."

"Tch." Gale shakes his head, not bothering to hide his disgust.

It's still awkward to see Katniss and Peeta, but he _ran away from _Johanna. And now she's here again like a toothache you hope went away for good, only to come back worse. And it's not even because she wanted to come back – at least, she made it sound like she's just doing her husband's bidding. That thought puts a bitter taste in his mouth, like ashes.

"Why send you?" Gale asks. "Plutarch?"

"Would you agree to come if he had?" she asks.

"Hell no," he replies quickly.

Jo smirks again, probably because she thinks he's so readable. "See."

Gale finds that spot on the wall to stare at again while he sulks. Jo stands that for about two minutes before she peels herself off the cot, coming to stand in front of the dresser, right up to his knees. "I'm leaving in the morning, Gale."

If Gale had developed a nervous tic after losing both Katniss and Jo to marshmallows, he might have twitched right then. Nice of her to give him a warning…this time. "I thought middle of the night was more your speed," he digs at her, feeling satisfied when she blushes.

Jo's eyes narrow dangerously when she recovers. "I'm leaving in the _morning,_" she hisses. "Let me know about the job by then."

He gives her a curt nod as she stalks out. Then he sits there for a good fifteen minutes, pondering how his relaxing Friday night just got shot to hell. He wonders which cabin she'll stay in, if she arrived with the supply truck and whether or not he should bother giving her any sort of answer. It's not like she ever supplied him with any.

Gale slides off the dresser with a groan. He walks over to the kitchenette, fills the percolator with water and stale coffee grounds, then with mechanical movements lights the burner on the range top. Now that she's gone, he feels sapped of energy and angry without a way to vent it. He leans against the counter, waiting for the coffee to heat up, staring across the one-room cabin at the box on the table. His letter is still in there, but now he feels worse than ever.

God, he needs a life. The woods sounded like a good distraction three years ago when he needed to leave sour memories behind. But Jo knew where to hit him tonight. Always did. He can't take another five, ten, fifteen – however many years he's got left with the knuckleheads on his crew. Sure, the job's interesting and the forests are bigger than he ever thought possible. But who is he kidding? He'll never be Gale Hawthorne of District 12 again, probably never feel that kind of freedom and anticipation he felt every time he slipped beneath the fence and didn't get fried. Katniss is gone – or at least the version of her that he knew. And Johanna turned out to be a man-eater. He thought he'd get away from all that, escape the _girls_ who were trashing his life somehow. But the problem never really went away.

So what has he got? A year's growth of beard, a plywood and canvas cabin he doesn't own that could get burned down by Jabberjay guerrillas, a handful of letters from his family, a few more scars, and the only female around is Belching Bertha who talks too much about her boyfriend from the fort over by Bottom Up Creek.

Gale needs to do something different. He takes the pink envelope out of the box, breaks the sealed flap and pulls out the ivory stationery written over with fine, loopy cursive. He holds it up to his nose. Her letters always smell good.

Gale isn't sure how he suckered himself into replying to a personal ad. Writing has never been his thing. Anything he wanted to say, he'd say out loud. But she sounded intelligent, this girl, maybe a little uppity, or maybe spirited is the right word. Gale has never been with a girl like that. Spirited, yes. Spirited and high-brow? Right. They didn't come that way in the Seam. In town, maybe. Gale had eyes; it wasn't like he never looked. But merchants made it pretty clear that Seam boys were to stay away from their daughters, and Peacekeepers were ready to make trouble with anyone. But that's all over now. High brow, low brow, no government agency's getting in the way. So, maybe he wondered about it – what it'd be like to meet a girl who had time to think about the big picture, not just making it from day to day. The girl in the letters, she talked about a hierarchy of needs once – the most basic physical needs to self-actualization or some big word like that. To her, the level of needs were goals. She made goals to think more, crazy girl.

But Gale didn't really think this "dear friend" was crazy nuts, not about thinking. He liked her thirst to figure out the world. In fact, he used to feel like _he_ was wearing a straight-jacket back in Twelve because they weren't supposed to question anything, let alone talk about anything important. That's when he'd drag Katniss around the woods and make her squirm while he spouted treason. Katniss wasn't dumb, but she sure was fixated on those basic needs, and she didn't want to talk.

So, what could a letter hurt? After getting stonewalled by Katniss and a little freaked out by Johanna, he needs someone different. And if it went wrong, letters don't have to be written. They can be thrown away unread.

But so far, things were only going right. With the letters, anyway.

_Dear friend…_

* * *

><p><strong>To be continued…<strong>

Acknowledgments:

Today's chapter title comes from MCR's "Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys." They really are fabulous.

Finlee and Aurora Odair belong to Geeky-DMHG-Fan. Also, she gave me the idea for the photo frame.

The cake and the brilliant artwork that it came from belong to Apricotteacup of DA fame. http:/fav(dot)me/d2imt12


	3. We May See Murder Yet

**A/N**: Wow, last chapter inspired a lot of strong emotions! LOL! Your reactions were priceless – and to such diverse things, but especially the Jo/Plu crack pairing. Thanks to all reviewers; I can't wait to hear what you think of this chapter. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

**We May See Murder Yet**

* * *

><p>Gale experiences a half-lucid dream, watching himself with idle curiosity. He has a book of matches. He strikes the match, watching the small flame jump up in a burst, then bob down again lower on the match head. The flame eats through the match, burning his fingertips. Gale sucks on the angry, red skin, then lights a second match and starts all over again. The flame blisters his skin. All the while, he hears Jo's voice telling him they weren't exclusive. She'd been having second thoughts for a while. It'd been fun.<p>

Gale lights a third match.

He's startled by a loud, ear-splitting crackle, dropping the third match before it can burn him. The sound wakes him as a voice comes out of the overhead speakers.

"Oops. Welcome to District Thirteen. Thank you for flying Quintus Airlines," says the disembodied voice. "Feel free to tip the pilot when you leave." Since when does one hovercraft constitute an airline?

Gale peers out of the hovercraft window he used as a pillow. His head and neck ache. Outside the window, people in orange coveralls dart this way and that along special lines painted on the tarmac. Trip's over.

"Time to vamoose, Sleeping Beauty."

"You talking to me?" he mumbles up to the front of the plane when the captain appears from behind a curtain.

Gale grimaces at the sight of what looks like fish tackle hooked in the man's face and the swatches of green-tipped hair stuck up at odd angles around the aviator goggles. "You're the only one on board, sonny jim," Captain McFarlane drawls. "Get off my hovercraft." Then he gives him a sardonic leer. "And have a good evening."

Gale wriggles out of the safety belts and grabs his bag from the overhead bin. "See you around," he calls toward the cockpit of the single-engine Besra called the Hobgoblin.

"Cheers."

The door is opened by the crew on the tarmac who rolled up the staircase thing that always makes Gale nervous. One of these days it's going to collapse or roll away while he's still on it. He shoulders is bag and grips each side of the railing, hoping nobody's watching.

The District Thirteen hangar is almost deserted except for some of the crew, himself and a familiar couple waving at him from across the cavern. Scratch that. It's a couple, but only one of them waves. Gale wonders if he ignores them, will they go away? He shoulders his bag, looking for another exit.

"Gale!" They shout.

No such luck. At least they know better than to expect him to gush over the reunion. Plutarch arranged for them to meet him, which just adds to his ire.

Peeta sticks out his hand to shake Gale's when they're close enough. Gale can tell by his grip that Peeta hasn't been carrying huge bags of flour lately. Not weak, but tell-tale of a life cooped up underground. "Welcome back," Peeta says, friendly as ever.

"Thanks," Gale says uncomfortably.

Katniss doesn't shake his hand or anything. She hugs her arms around her waist, looking like she can't decide if she wants to hug him or if she thinks he'd hate the idea. And beneath that, he detects something else – anger mixed with relief?

He gives her a nod. "Katniss."

"Gale."

Peeta studies them in that thoughtful way of his, and then he smiles. "It's just like old times. Panem's grumpiest citizens in the same place. Minus the small arsenal," he says, meaning the illegal weapons they stashed in the woods outside of Twelve. "Actually, Katniss still has a small arsenal."

They both glower at Peeta. He smiles wider. Gale gives Katniss a look that says, _Well, you married him_.

"Let's go." Katniss stalks out of the double doors of the hangar. Gale follows on her heels and Peeta limps behind them.

In the main thoroughfare through Level 1, Gale shivers as an icy blast of air from the sagging overhead vents blows over them. He forgot how icy it could get down here. They pump in fresh air from outside to keep people on the lower levels from asphyxiating. But the old bunker isn't so good at keeping the temperature of the air controlled.

Gale lets Katniss lead the way. The place has changed a little since he last lived here. For one, there's scaffolding all over the place and fresh paint. Although he knew these corridors better than Katniss at one time, the changes are just enough to discombobulate him.

"How's the fancy job?" Katniss asks dryly now that they're in the corridor instead of the echoing hangar. She's still walking ahead of Peeta and Gale. He could catch up to her easily with his longer legs, but he figures a little space after three years of separation might be a good thing, until Katniss warms up to him.

Gale's lips curl. "The _fancy_ job gives me a severe case of chiggers every summer and frostbite on my small toe last January."

"No need to brag," she replies sardonically over her shoulder. "We're all impressed."

"Yeah?" Gale adjust his bag over his shoulder and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, I might be going back to it soon if this job doesn't work out," Gale mutters.

Katniss stops to let him catch up. "How _did_ you end up getting hired by Plutarch?" she asks suspiciously.

"My stunning resume?" he retorts. "I'll be working under Haymitch. Plutarch would hire anyone who could stay sober during business hours. How does Haymitch even hold a job with his problem?" Gale makes drinking gesture with his hand.

"_Working with Haymitch?"_ Gale hears Peeta say from somewhere behind them. He's ignored.

"Everyone knows he got the job as a favor for his help coordinating the rebellion," Katniss says bluntly. "His employees keep the office together." Then her eyebrows contract, like she feels sorry for saying that about her former mentor. "Although, he's sharp, even when he is drunk."

"He must have been," Gale allows. "He managed to get you out of the arena."

The _shuffle_-_pfft_ of Peeta's gait speeds up_. "But if you work for Haymitch, that means you'll –"_

Katniss wipes her hands on the sides of her pants, like she's nervous. "Are you around for good, though. I mean, assuming you last working in the same space as Haymitch?" she asks. "Plutarch didn't tell us much."

"_Hey, I just want to point out –"_ The voice sounds far away. Probably talking to someone else.

Gale's stomach tightens, thinking about the letters. He could tell Katniss that they're the reason he accepted the job, so he could have a chance to meet her when he works up the nerve. Suppose he likes her? He'd stay for that. But suppose he doesn't?

Gale shrugs. "For now." That's about the extent of his knowledge. And there's always the possibility that he'll go running for the hills again as soon as something triggers him. Like the complete lack of windows.

"Where are they keeping you?" Katniss continues. "Do you know?"

"_Wait…"_

Gale shakes his head. "I don't know yet, Katniss. I'm supposed to have quarters somewhere. That's probably all squared away with Heavensbee." And boy does it kill him to have to note any dependency on that old lech.

"Stay with us for tonight, then," she invites, though warily like he might melt her with his evil eyebeams. "You can sort out all those details tomorrow."

Stay with them in the Mellark love nest? Gale suppresses a shudder. He's going to have to get over this revulsion to their relationship in the near future because he only has a handful of friends to choose from down here. Rather than ask the time, Gale just accepts the invitation. If he has to choose between the Mellark love nest and the Heavensbee love nest, he'd pick Katniss and Peeta every time. He doesn't want to hunt down Plutarch at home right now. "Sure."

Katniss actually smiles at him, looking pleased that he doesn't seem hostile. It makes him feel bad…for feeling hostile. The atmosphere between them does improve, some. It's almost like old times, like Peeta said. Almost, but not quite.

The corridor finally ends. Katniss stops in front of the elevators, punching the call button. They wait, and it's not until Peeta finally shuffles up that Gale remembers that there were supposed to be three of them. Dough boy's out of breath and muttering to himself, coming to stand in front of them like an overheated marshmallow.

Katniss turns a little pink. Gale suspects that she forgot about him too and can't believe she let herself get so distracted. "Were you trying to say something?" she asks.

Peeta collapses against the wall, red-faced. He waves the question off. "Never mind," he gasps. "You two walk too fast when you're together." He taps his bum leg.

Katniss looks guilty. "Sorry," she says. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Peeta shakes his head, half exasperated and half affectionate, like he expected Katniss to go off in a mad rush once she and Gale were together again.

The sliding doors open on an empty elevator car. Katniss helps Peeta inside. He holds onto the rail.

"I haven't seen you this out of breath in a long time," Katniss whispers to Peeta. Gale suspects that he's not supposed to listen in, but that doesn't stop him. They're in the same elevator, after all.

"That's not true," Peeta mumbles with a rebellious glint in his eyes. Something she sees in them causes Katniss to turn scarlet. She carefully avoids looking at Gale.

Gale clears his throat. "So, you still do some hunting?"

Katniss nods. "With my babysitters," she adds bitterly.

She probably wouldn't need body guards in the forests if he stuck around. If he's honest, it stings that Katniss still hunts without him, even though he did essentially the same thing without her.

"You go too?" Gale asks Peeta. He's breathing better and his high color faded some.

"No, I'd just scare the game away," Mellark bluntly admits. "It defeats the purpose."

Well, nothing's changed there.

The Mellark residence isn't too far from the lifts – prime real estate in the Underground. The minute the door to their place opens, Gale's senses are assaulted by the conflicting odors of paint fumes and pastries. His nose tingles. Gale instantly takes in the pile of baked goods on the counter in the kitchen and the paintings covering all the walls. Hell's teeth. They're a regular couple of magpies.

"You can stay on the couch," Katniss says. Despite the long walk he's already had, she sends Peeta to get some extra sheets for Gale from the distribution closet on the corner of their level while he quietly interprets their current lifestyle from the room. When the door shuts behind him, she crosses her arms and very seriously asks,

"So…Johanna?"

Gale invites himself to sit down on their couch, throwing his bag on the floor beside his feet. He says wearily, "Katniss?"

"Yes, Gale?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose to quell the mental nosebleed he always gets when Jo's name comes up. "The first rule about Johanna is, we do not talk about Johanna."

"Fine," she huffs, dissatisfaction evident in every line of her body. But he's really not going to discuss one former flame with another.

Gale pats the couch cushion and Katniss sinks down next to him. He notices a photo frame on the table and picks it up. "You doing all right, Catnip?" he asks quietly, studying the image of Katniss and Peeta looking in love with one another.

Katniss grows quiet and stays that way for a long while. He almost suspects that she fell asleep with her eyes open.

"Three years is a long time, Gale," she observes.

Gale squirms. "I know." He can see that now, just by looking at their home. He didn't realize he'd feel like this much of a stranger or that they'd be quite so…settled. He thought he'd be impressive just for remembering to shave before he came. Now he feels like a vagabond.

"I miss you." She looks him in the eyes. "A lot of us miss you. Your mom. The kids." She's about to say more, maybe to reassure him that Jo feels badly, but she holds back.

"My family's fine," he denies. "You have Peeta." And that's all he's going to say about that.

Katniss taps her boot against his, the way she used to when they'd sit on the ledge outside of Twelve. "It's not the same. You know that."

Gale gazes blankly ahead. "Yeah, I know." He swallows and says, "It didn't feel that long until now."

"No? I guess you kept pretty busy." She asks hesitantly, "Are you taking care of yourself?"

Gale appraises Katniss. He's not exactly sure what she means by that question. So he doesn't answer. He studies her face. It looks fuller than it used to, but not in a little girl way. She holds her shoulders straight, not rigid. He realizes that she looks like a woman. A real one. Not some wannabe wearing makeup.

"Sure. I guess," he finally says. He wonders if he should tell her about the pink envelopes but decides against it. He doesn't consider himself to be superstitious, but he wants to keep this to himself. As long as he's the only one who knows about it, nobody can take it away from him and trample over it. Whether they mean to or not.

Peeta turns up just then with the sheets. He throws them on the kitchen table. "So, what's this about Johanna going to see you?"

_Hell's_ _teeth_.

…

Madge wakes with a sense of well-being she hadn't experienced in years. She stretches beneath the covers and reaches to switch off the alarm clock before it goes off. She always feels better about starting the day when she can beat the awful sound.

But today it's more than that. She's ready for a change and today that new promotion is just waiting to be handed over – Haymitch as good as said so when she requested an interview last week.

At least, that's how she's choosing to interpret his reply of, "Why are you bothering me with stupid questions? Just be here next Monday at 9:30. Bring your own pen!"

Madge pries herself off the squeaky mattress and shambles toward the bathroom for a mostly-hot shower. If she can get up before the rest of the residents on Level 9, then she might even have decent water pressure. She closes her eyes just before she switches on the full-spectrum lights in the bathroom, letting herself adjust to the brightness. Her shower is quick, barely allowing herself to savor the warm water like she normally does in the morning. Today she just wants to _go_. Her hair dries in seconds with the help of a mild electric current and she clips it up in a stylish knot on the back of her head. She takes her time putting some makeup on, with extra emphasis on the eyes. Even if only Haymitch will see it, she wants to _know_ that she looks as good as she's going to feel when she signs the letter of promotion.

Madge leaves the bathroom in her dressing gown, entering the kitchen just long enough to swallow down a vitamin D supplement and a glass of orange juice.

"Aren't you going to eat breakfast?" her father asks. He's sitting at the nondescript kitchen table with a piece of toast. Madge frowns. She thought she hid the toaster. Oh well.

"I couldn't eat if I wanted to," she replies.

Madge walks by the table, kisses her father on the cheek, then heads for her bedroom again.

Clad in the regulation black gabardine skirt, nylons and white oxford blouse, she decides to don a pair of heels today instead of her sensible flats. She frowns at the top of her blouse where a button is missing. Oh well. A little extra skin on top couldn't hurt. Her slip keeps it from crossing the line into immodesty.

Finally satisfied with her appearance, Madge grabs her bag and blazer and heads toward the door.

"Good luck, Margaret," Mr. Undersee calls after her.

"Thanks, Daddy," she says as she sails out the door.

…

Madge has just enough time to make it to the post office before work, though the corridors are crowded with the morning rush. She takes the stairs, even though it's eight flights up to Level 1 where she works. At Level 4 she can get off, check her post office box, then try to squeeze onto the lift from there.

She's regretting her decision once she wheezes her way toward the mailboxes. Especially when box number 237 is empty. She stifles the jolt of disappointment she feels, simultaneously ignoring the pinch in the toes of her shoes. It's possible that his letter's late and it might still make it for the afternoon post. She hopes. Not receiving a letter is the only thing that could keep this from being the perfect day.

Well, that and the possibility that she'll never find an elevator with enough space for her. After the fourth lift goes by that's already filled to capacity, she begins to face that facts that she'll have to climb three more flights of stairs in her awful shoes.

A fifth lift arrives. The doors open, revealing a familiar face gawking at her.

"Oh, hello!" Junius Trivet of District 2 cries. He puts a hand out to stop the doors from closing. "Need a lift? Come on then. Now, everyone just budge together. Here you are, Miss Undersee."

Junius seizes her hand, pulling her inside despite murmurs of protest from the other passengers. She squeezes in, expressing her thanks to Junius and apologizing to the man whose foot she just stabbed with her heel.

"It's nothing." Junius waves off her gratitude. He is a tall, lavishly-dressed man who works as the administrative assistant in her office. His golden curls look a little too stiff to be natural and Madge finds it difficult to concentrate on not pulling on one hanging over his forehead to see if it bounces. She locks her fingers around her bag and refrains while he quizzes her about the delights of the morning. Junius isn't her favorite colleague, but he's so darn polite and bursting with personality, it feels antisocial not to get along with him.

"Allow me, Miss Undersee," he says, helping her squeeze out of the sea of bodies trying to burst from the lift all at once. She nearly loses her balance once she's past the crush.

Madge lets out a deep breath now that she has space to move her lungs. "I wish they'd add more cars," she grumbles. She's going to have a bruise on her knee where someone smacked her with a briefcase.

Junius dusts himself off, though his suit looks immaculate. "What a squash," he complains brightly. "I always say I'll take the stairs. It's good for the figure. But it wouldn't do to show up to work red in the face and sweating all over, now would it? Let me get the door for you."

"Thank you, Junius," she says, allowing him to punch the security code into the keypad that releases the door to the District Outreach suite.

Two of the four desks in the large, central office are occupied already. Ilona always arrives five minutes to nine. The curly, sandy-haired secretary greets Madge by waving a letter opener and giving her a significant smile as Madge steps into the office. Terrance, on the other hand, blushes and tries to hide behind his desk lamp. His red hair and red ears make him look like one of those number 2 pencils with a pink eraser on top. The socially awkward, painfully shy eighteen-year-old aide always needs to warm up to Madge after the weekend. Not immune to blushing herself, Madge takes pity on him most of the time.

"Good morning," Madge greets. Ilona replies as she gets up to grab them both a cup of coffee. Terry squeaks something that might have been _good_ _morning_ or _please_ _don't_ _eat_ _me_. "Has Haymitch come in already?" she asks while she unlocks her desk drawer and throws her purse inside.

"He's already in his office. He even beat me," Ilona says with obvious amazement. Then she whispers conspiratorially, sidling up along Madge's desk. "You've done something different with your makeup."

Madge grins. "Do you like it?"

"You look wonderful, kid," Ilona says. "Knock 'em dead in there."

Madge certainly intends to. She pretends to keep herself occupied by doodling on a sketchpad, ignoring Junius's attempts at small talk, until 9:30 rolls around and her interview can begin.

At 9:27, Haymitch opens the door to his personal office. He looks bleary of eye and scruffy of hair, as usual, except that he has to shave his face every morning now. "Madge, come here a minute," he says with the musical quality of a cement mixer.

Madge gets to her feet, ignoring the pinch in her shoes and the sudden erratic beating of her heart from anticipation. Haymitch disappears back into the shadows of his office while the main room suddenly throbs with anticipation.

Madge straightens her skirt and blouse, feeling a bit lightheaded and giddy.

"Good luck, M-Miss Undersee," Terrance stammers.

"Thanks," Madge replied warmly. She always liked Terry.

"I've already ordered the new name plate for the door," says Junius, sitting on the corner of his desk. He stands up to clasp her hands. "And I think I speak for all of us, dear Miss Undersee, when I say that we look forward to sailing under your navigation."

Madge blushes deeply. "Now, Junius, I haven't even had the interview yet," she tries to scold. She smiles a little too widely to make it stick.

"Mere formalities, I'm sure." He flashes her with a dazzling smile.

Madge extricates her hands as politely as possible. She takes one last reassuring glance at Ilona, then lets herself into Haymitch's office. She's prepared to take the single seat in front of his desk, but someone else has already filled it. Someone with black hair that looks almost blue in parts where the light hits it. His legs sprawl out on either side of the chair. He must be tall.

Plutarch Heavensbee is also present. He turns around from studying the book spines of Haymitch's "library" to see who just entered. The presence of two other people throws Madge off. She hadn't realized that she'd be facing a panel.

Plutarch turns his curious face toward Haymitch, who grunts and says, "The Undersee girl."

Madge fights the urge to roll her eyes. Mr. Heavensbee has never been able to remember her name in two years.

Heavensbee lips curl into a smile. "Ah, Miss Undersee, I want you to meet Gale Hawthorne," he says, directing her eyes back to the tall stranger in the chair, who twisted around to look at her while she was watching Plutarch. They both freeze when their eyes meet.

_Gale Hawthorne? When did he return to the Underground?_ she wonders. Seeing him does something strange to her stomach, probably because he's someone from home. Madge wonders if she's having the same effect on him, because his slate-gray eyes don't seem to be looking at anything else but her, like the rest of the room seems to have fallen away from him.

Gale's face is clean-shaven, revealing weather-beaten, olive skin. His eyes and the wide cut of his jawline give him a permanently headstrong aspect. Long, black strands of hair that always used to fall over his eyes have been cut making him look like an adult instead of the teen heartthrob she remembers from school. Which makes sense – they've both grown up, haven't they.

Haymitch clears his throat.

"We've met." Gale's voice has a low timbre that she had forgotten about. It makes her stomach flip again. He's giving Plutarch a less than respectful glare, which sends her back to summertime in District 12. She's been the subject of that look before. "We're from the same district."

Plutarch clasps his hands behind his back, stomach pushed out like a wizened old banker. He's impervious to the expression on Gale's face. Madge supposes he would be, married to Johanna Mason. Madge has only met her once or twice, but she was very…intense.

"Oh. Same district? Wonderful. That will speed things along." says Heavensbee pleasantly. "Miss Undersee, as chief intern, he'll rely on you to help smooth his transition as the new manager of this department."

Madge balks. She can't have heard that correctly. Her stomach feels like it just got stapled to the floor by a nail gun. Surely there must be some mistake. She's in here for an interview – her interview for her job! What is Gale even doing here? Why didn't Ilona say Haymitch had these two men in his office? Her head starts to feel like it's spinning.

Then she remembers that Haymitch arrived before the office opened, so Ilona wouldn't know about Gale. How long have they been in here discussing this?

"Manager?" Madge barely masks her confusion as she turns accusing eyes on Haymitch. "Haymitch?"

"Just hired this morning," Haymitch grunts. He doesn't try to make eye contact, which angers her.

Plutarch claps Gale on the shoulder. It might be a trick of the light but it looks like Gale shudders. "That's right. We contracted young Mr. Hawthorne all the way from the wilds to take care of business here for us. He's just what this place needs." He gives Haymitch a meaningful look, which is returned with a stink eye.

Madge is glad that she never let go of the doorknob when she closed the door, otherwise she's sure she'd either fall to the floor or scratch someone's eyes out. She leans against it, welcoming the way the cold metal digs into her back. It gives her something to focus on. Gale Hawthorne. Manager. The promotion she felt so sure would be hers, the one Haymitch _promised_ her, now belongs to Gale. Who just happened to pop back into her life –_out of nowhere_—to steal her job? Her one bright ray of hope. He'll be her boss – have her job! Why? How is Gale remotely qualified? More qualified than she?

It's a long moment before she realizes they're all watching her expectantly. She blinks. "Um…pardon?"

Plutarch clears his throat. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to show Mr. Hawthorne around, take him to his office to settle in. Get him whatever he needs," says Plutarch, apparently oblivious to the drama unfolding in the small room, which he brought on. "Haymitch and I have some paperwork to square away."

She nods mutely, feeling the color drain from her face. Plutarch shakes Gale's hand and wishes him luck. With numb, trembling fingers, she turns the knob to open the door for Gale. She peeks out into the main office and instantly regrets it when she sees Ilona's expectant face, Terrence's shy gaze, and Junius's obnoxious smile. Their expressions instantly change from anticipation to confusion when Gale exits the office before her. He leaves the faint scent of pine and soap wafting in the air, like he strolled in straight from a bath in the forest. She cringes. Now that she can see him properly, she notices that he's not even wearing a _suit_. Just a crumpled flannel shirt and corduroy trousers. His work boots have mud on them. What was he doing for the last three years anyway? Digging ditches? Living on raw squirrel? Madge bites the inside of her lip to keep from screaming her outrage as she closes the door on Haymitch and Heavensbee.

Gale stops a few step into the main room, turning to watch her with a grave expression. "Where to?"

Madge bites her lip harder until she tastes blood. She wonders if she should show him the coffee maker, the copy machine or the bathroom first. She's leaning toward a tour of the bathroom. She could drown him in the sink, then inherit his job. After she got out of jail.

He quirks a heavy eyebrow, waiting for her to say something.

"The sink—" Madge stops herself, blushes, then absentmindedly reaches for the knot of hair on the back of her head. As a girl, she couldn't stand wearing it up because she could use it for a curtain to hide behind when she felt distressed, or she could play with the long strands if she felt bored. "I mean…"

Haymitch slips out of his office and calls her back, stalling her homicidal plans. "Just one moment, Madge." He pulls her over to a corner by the copy machine while Gale stares after them impassively, waiting for someone to show him around.

Haymitch's wide back blocks the rest of the staff from getting an eyeful of her inability to compose herself. "Change of plans, sweetheart," he mutters. Although she smells the white liquor on his breath, his eyes are alert and clear, which means he's seeing everything about her that she doesn't want anyone to see right now. Like how shaken she is by the turn of events.

Madge's eyes burn and she's trying desperately to blink away any moisture from her eyes. She hates crying in front of anyone – and she hates that she cries from frustration and disappointment like she's a child rather than an adult.

"What was the point," she chokes through a dry sob, "of telling me I had a chance, Haymitch?"

Haymitch crosses his arms and gives her a piercing stare to match the accusation in her own eyes. "Heavensbee decided to hire the next manager himself. Told me this morning before everyone got here," he says gruffly. "I had no choice. I didn't even know."

"You answer to Heavensbee," she mutters, swiping at her eyes with her hands.

He nods curtly. "That's the color of it."

That only frustrates Madge more – she wants every excuse to be angry at Haymitch. She tries briefly not to resent either men, but not very hard. She can't see why Plutarch had to take a sudden interest in this office after letting Haymitch "run" things on his own for several years.

"We're stuck with Hawthorne, so make the best of it." He starts to leave but then thinks of something else. "Between you and me, I doubt he'll hang around for very long. He's not white collar like us."

Madge rolls her eyes. Haymitch couldn't be any less _white collar_ if he dyed himself blue.

…

Gale has an eye for detail. Always did. Maybe his vision isn't as sharp as Katniss's, but not much ever slips by him. Not on the hunt, not in the balance of a snare. Not on the field when their shipments were being tampered with. Now, Madge looks a lot like Gale remembers her. Not that he spent much time on it, but he never figured the mayor's daughter would ever have a job that didn't require business causal fixings. And she's pretty business, except for a button missing from the top of her blouse. He's only human – but at least he only looked once. She's wearing a sensible slip underneath.

Most of the details fit. Madge is slim, with fair hair and skin. Pretty in an upscale kind of way that he's never felt he could set his fingers on. Certainly not attractive in the same way that he found Katniss's rough simplicity or Jo's edgy, dramatic features attractive. But something stands out as different from his memories of the Mayor's daughter. Her eyes are verbena blue – nothing new there – but they're filled with murder.

Which is odd because she had a look of serene ecstasy about her when she first walked into Haymitch's office. It dimmed pretty quickly after that. He chalks it up to too many years of working for Haymitch.

When Haymitch gets out of their way, Gale takes care to stand on Madge's side while she leads him around the office, even though she seems determined to walk ahead of him. He catches glimpses of her expressions when she introduces him to the staff and explaining their positions.

Ilona, the secretary: a round, comfortable sort of woman with a mild smile and pretty teeth.

Terry/Terrance, the errand boy and technophile: red of hair and face, timid to the point of pain. He's here as a part of a work-study program.

Junius Trivet: an unfortunate import from District 2. Gale doesn't want to know how many pounds of pomade the man goes through every quarter.

All the while, Madge doesn't even know what she says, he figures, judging by the blank expression on her face and her clipped tone. She's about as warm and friendly as an automaton in a freezer. Ilona, Gale notices, gives her a concerned look that Madge seems oblivious to while they go over the settings for the coffeemaker. A detail he doesn't need to know, but she seems on the brink of something he doesn't want to explore by saying the wrong thing or making his presence too obvious.

They spend half an hour on the copy machine, where she translates how to use it from Terry's stammering. The boy warms up a little over the scanner, but Madge has to explain how their filing system works and what documents they shred and which they recycle. She ignores Gale's questions.

"This will be your office. I expect Haymitch will give you the key," she says blandly, opening the door for him. He steps inside.

"Why don't you come in for a moment," Gale asks before she turns to leave.

Madge blinks at him, but silently follows him inside.

Gale's throat constricts when she closes the door. He suddenly misses his pinched little cabin in the woods, compared to this lunchbox of a room. He tugs on the collar of his shirt feeling closed in. He tries to pull it together before he turns around to face Madge. A desk takes up the center of the space. Gale turns around, scrunching the hair on the back of his head. Although there's a chair behind the desk, he opts to sit on the edge of the tabletop. Madge watches him from where she stands quietly by a row of file cabinets. "I haven't seen you in a while," he says.

Madge frowns. "No." The fact that they'd never had a reason to see one another; they weren't friends, hangs unspoken in the air.

"How have you been?" he continues, trying to imagine what conversational Peeta would say in this situation.

Madge's shoulders rise with tension. "Never better," she replies wryly, eyes sharp and at odds with the lovely shade of blue.

Gale has a healthy sense of sarcasm, so he knows when it's directed at him. But he's not going to let her cow him. So he pretends to take her at her word – if she wants to button her lip when he asks an honest question, that's her problem.

"Good." He rubs his hands together. "Well, what's next?"

What's next? Gale can see the question form on her lips. Plutarch hired him for a managerial position and he doesn't even know what to do with himself? Her thoughts might as well project themselves from bubbles hanging over her head. They're so obvious.

"You start managing," she replies, dropping any pretense of civility.

Gale's eyes narrow. A guarded expression appears on his face. "Is there something I'm missing, Madge?" he asks bluntly. "Or do I detect some hostility?" Madge's cheeks pinken. He can tell by the way the corner of her lip puckers that she's biting the inside of her mouth. "Out with it," he demands.

"I just…" Madge blinks at Gale, momentarily stunned that he's asking her to be frank with him. They must be used to a lot of tiptoeing in this office – not an unusual occurrence where an alcoholic is involved in the mix. She reaches for her shoulder, like she wants to flip hair that isn't there. Her arm drops back down to her side, limp. He makes himself comfortable, waiting for her to assemble her thoughts.

Madge glares at him through half-hooded eyes. She takes a deep breath of stale Underground air. "It's interesting that someone with no background in management would hold a position in a government agency," she says slowly. "That's all." As in, that's all she's going to tell him.

Gale shrugs. "I don't know about you, but I always thought the fewer government officials working in government agencies the better," he says with aggravating calm, and even a hint of humor. Madge startles, like a strange voice came out of his mouth or something, then her lips turn white as she presses them together, harder. Gale's not sure what that's about. He didn't have her dad in mind, per se, but he wouldn't remove Mayor Undersee from the list of impotent officials. He chalks up her reaction to a defensive conscience. "As for administration, I managed a team of surveyors. I guess the department wanted someone who has actually been outside of the Underground lately. I'm mean, it _is _district outreach, isn't it?"

Madge visibly bristles like a disturbed cat. "And where have you been?" Her eyes dip down to his muddy boots, then back up to his face.

"Out in the woods until yesterday," he tells her, indifferent to the fact that she's not impressed by his outfit. "Surveying, like I said. I haven't had time to assemble a new wardrobe. Does that offend your delicate sensibilities?"

Gale remains seated on the hard edge of the desk and studies her. She studies him right back. "It will take more than a new suit to run this place, Mr. Hawthorne," she informs him coldly.

"I'm sure you'll be glad to help fill in the gaps where I'm deficient." Gale allows himself a smirk. After all, he's just broken several syllabic records in the last five minutes.

Madge gives him a smile guaranteed to curdle milk.

* * *

><p><em>Dun…dun…dun…to be continued<em>.

Today's title comes from the musical _1776_, the track, "But, Mr. Adams."


	4. Tales from the Back Pages

**Chapter 4**

**Tales from the Back Pages**

* * *

><p>Madge's fingers trace the chilly metal interior of her post office box. Nothing. Disappointment leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She tried swallowing it down, but her throat feels too tight.<p>

She gives herself a mental pep talk. He often doesn't write for several weeks. Next week she'll have her letter.

It's just that she really needed something happy after her epic failure today. No, she can't call it a failure – she wasn't considered – never stood a chance to succeed or fail. _And everyone in the office knows. _That's what makes the whole thing burn. Disappointment is bitter, but the _humiliation_. Ilona treated her so carefully all day – Terry couldn't even look at her. Even he warms up by lunchtime usually. Junius wouldn't stop sighing. Ugh.

And who gave himself the rest of the day off? _Haymitch_. Oh, she could kill him. Wrap her fingers around his flabby neck till his eyes pop. She wonders if he tried at all to change Plutarch's mind about hiring _that man. _

She's never felt hostile toward _that man_ before. In fact, at another time in her life she might have been thrilled to work with him. Not today. In fact, he has the dubious honor of participating in the worst day of her life since her mother's death.

Madge closes her mailbox with the finality of a grave digger, blinking angrily at the swimming, brass numbers 237.

"No news is good news. No bills," says a chipper middle-aged man in coveralls, whose box is in the same row as hers, several columns over. He closes the door to his box, turns the key and waves her goodbye.

Bills. The word makes Madge's stomach twist. The first time she had to pay rent after her father and she were taken off of refugee status had come as a shock. Madge honestly didn't know how much it cost to live before then. Quite a lot, it turns out. That had been a hard first year. She learned to carry food on a tray and not to snap at customers even when they acted like pigs. She worked for Sykes at the Broken Oar with Ruga and Bartel. Then she went to school and talked Haymitch into creating a position for her. That helped her pay grade, but only enough to cover basic expenses and a little extra, like her father's prescriptions and the membership at the subscription library.

"I'm sorry, Miss," says the clerk behind the desk where packages are weighed. His lined face shows concern. "We close in five minutes. Do you need stamps?"

Madge realizes she's been standing in front of her box for too long to be normal. She shakes her head at the clerk, adjusts the straps on her purse over her shoulder, and slips out of the glass-plated post office.

…

All the lights are out when Madge comes home except for a dim glow in the living room. As soon as the doors open, she smells something burning and kicks into survival mode. Her fingers scramble for the light switch, then she drops her things on the kitchen table to race over to the oven.

"Dad!" she cries in alarm, rushing to rescue a saucepan from the stove. Her father left the pan of oatmeal to boil over, then burn black on the range top, forgotten. She hastily switches the burner to the off position and tosses the red-hot pan in the sink. The smoke burns her throat and makes her eyes water. If only they had windows! She finds an oven mitt, batting the air. The smoke didn't trigger the sensor on the detector even though it's billowing along the ceiling. Madge isn't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. She'd hate for the fire brigade to come out again because of ruined oatmeal. But then, she'd hate for them not to come on the day when more than oatmeal is on the line.

"Dad!" Madge calls again. No answer. She hopes he didn't leave the apartment – that he's only asleep. Otherwise she has to go after him.

Reluctantly, Madge puts down the oven mitt to check the living room. "Dad?"

Madge finds her father sitting in his armchair staring blankly at the wall in the living room, glasses askew. Madge bends down next to him, but his eyes stay fixed on the wall. A book lies open on the floor at his feet. It's the one from Effie, she realizes. She lifts it up to put it away, but a bookmark slides halfway out from between the pages. She tries to slip it in farther, but it catches. So she opens to the page it's supposed to mark.

It's a picture of the Justice Building in Twelve, or a building very similar to it, anyway. Madge purposefully refuses to let her eyes drift to the caption. She snaps the book shut. This must be the last page her father saw, if that's where the bookmark was. No wonder he's triggered.

Madge shoves the book under his armchair then gently takes her father's hand. When he's like this, all she can do is sit with him until he comes out of it. This is why she wants him at the community center so badly, so he's not alone all day when an episode sneaks up on him. She can't stand the thought of him being by himself when he's hurting so badly – and clearly, he's a danger to himself.

Her legs feel tingly all over from sitting on them when he finally blinks at her. "Madge?"

"Are you okay?" she murmurs.

His expression is hollow and pained. "I should have—"

Madge squeezes his hand. "You aren't supposed to think that way anymore, remember?" she says sternly. "You couldn't do anything more for the district…or for Mom."

"Your poor mother." Mr. Undersee takes a deep breath, then seems to steel himself. "Is everything alright?" he asks. The twist on the back of her head is falling apart and he smells smoke.

"You left the burner on," she says quietly.

Mr. Undersee releases her hand and pushes himself out of his chair. Madge follows him into the kitchen. He surveys the cloud of steam and smoke rising from the pan in the sink. "I forgot about it," he says, downcast. "I'll clean up the mess."

"No, Dad, it's fine," Madge protests, even though it's far from fine. She pulls out his chair at the table for him to sit in, so she can keep an eye on her father while she works. When he's vulnerable like this, he makes rash decisions.

"I'll make you some dinner." She turns the tap on, throws soap flakes into the pan to soak, and wonders if she should bother to scourer it out or throw it away. If today had gone differently, then maybe she would just get rid of the dented, flaking pan and buy a new one.

Madge opens the refrigerator and surveys the bounty. Looks like tomato soup and cheese sandwiches again. Which reminds Madge of something important she'd discussed with her father.

"Dad," she says in her best impression of her father's diplomatic tone. He's still loitering by the counter instead of taking the chair she offered. "I thought we'd agreed on making sandwiches when I'm at work? Um, so you wouldn't have to use the stove?"

"Did we?"

Madge nods, eyes still on the inside of the fridge. He's been hopeless since Mom passed, growing more and more absent. Madge feels like the parent-child roll flipped somewhere. And now it's getting dangerous. Today isn't the first time he's set something on the stove, walked away and forgotten about it.

"Well," he says humbly, "that's probably a good idea."

Madge closes her eyes tight. She doesn't want to hurt his feelings or make him feel foolish. She also doesn't want a phone call from security informing her that her father has set Level 9 on fire. She resolves to unplug the stove tomorrow morning. She doubts her father will think to check that if he forgets he's been banned from making hot lunches.

"How does grilled cheese sound?" she asks.

"With soup?" he asks, hopeful.

"Yes."

"My favorite."

Madge laughs – it's going to have to be his favorite, it's the only thing she's good at making. "Fine. You can start by rinsing out that pan while I get the skillet warmed up."

They work together companionably until their little dinner is done. Mr. Undersee opens the cans of condensed tomato soup and adds water. Madge only burns herself once on the skillet. The soup and the sandwiches don't burn at all, so she's happy.

She pulls a chair over to take out the dinner plates and bowls from the cabinets that are too high for her. Her father sets the table.

"You didn't say how work went today?" Mr. Undersee points out when they're seated.

Madge's shoulders sag. She stirs the red soup around in her bowl, watching the swirls. "They gave the position to someone else," she murmurs.

"Oh," he says awkwardly. He quickly takes a spoonful of soup while Madge stirs hers around in gloomy silence.

Mr. Undersee clears his throat after several minutes of her moping. "Well, chin up." He pats her hand. "Something else will come."

"Yeah."

"Who got the job?" he asks after a reasonable amount of silence.

Madge bristles all over. Her eyes narrow into tiny slits as she assaults the bottom of her soup bowl, imagining the face of _that man_. "Gale Hawthorne."

Mr. Undersee blinks. "Should I know that name?"

"No," she grudgingly replies. It's a fib, but she doesn't care.

"Hmm, still." He purses his lips, trying to recall. "It has a familiar ring to it."

_Oh, Dad, _she sighs inwardly. She doesn't remind him that Gale single-handedly rescued the district by leading them out of the fence. Thinking about that will only break her dad's good mood. And it won't do anything to improve her own.

"But today is letter day," says Mr. Undersee, trying to be upbeat for Madge. "I forgot. Now that must have brightened things up for you."

Madge's eyes water for the dozenth time. "There wasn't anything in the mailbox when I went to look."

"Morning or afternoon post?"

"Both." Madge sniffs.

Mr. Undersee blinks in the face of another blunder. "Oh. Oh dear. I didn't mean to make you upset."

"I'm not upset," she denies, sounding distinctly watery. "I've just had a really awful day."

Mr. Undersee sighs, folding his hands over his stomach. He gives her a studious look. "Madge, why don't you go out tonight? Meet up with some friends?" he suggests. "I wonder if this letter business is getting a bit…out of hand."

The implication hangs in the air between them. Out of hand? Madge stops herself from making a face at him like she used to as a little girl. He doesn't understand what a lifeline the correspondence has become to her. She couldn't cut her friend out of her life any more than she could stop talking to Katniss or Peeta.

"I don't want to go out tonight," she says glumly. "You'll be all alone then."

"I don't mind." He points in the direction of his armchair. "I have more books to read. I'm feeling like myself again, if that's what you're worried about."

Madge manages to swallow some of her soup, mulling over her father's suggestion. It's a horrible idea, but maybe Madge does need to get out.

…

The call of the doorbell saves Katniss from having to pose for another of Peeta's sketches. He puts his pencil down. They quietly wonder who that could be and while Katniss answers the door, Peeta leaves to wash off the graphite smudged all over his hands.

Katniss steps back when she sees Madge pacing on her doorstep, pale and wringing her hands. The image of distress.

"Madge—"

"I'm fine," she blurts out, shouldering past Katniss to the dining room table where she stands in front of her usual chair. She clutches her thin jacket around herself.

Katniss studies her from behind, still standing by the door. "Are you really…"

Madge shakes her head. "No," she says, her voice thin and watery. "I'm not fine."

To prove this, Madge slumps into her chair and cries. Head down on her arms and everything. Katniss closes the door, wishing she were on the other side of it. She'd like to support Madge, but she's not good at the whole comfort thing. She glances down the hallway, hoping for rescue.

Peeta comes out of the bathroom and shoots Katniss a questioning look after he spots Madge face-down in a puddle of her own tears on their table. Katniss shrugs unhelpfully.

"I'll get the cake," he says, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Katniss sighs in relief. Peeta always knows what to do in these situations. Madge continues sobbing, but Katniss stiffens her spine and approaches the table. With Madge this upset, Katniss's attempts to sooth her can't possibly make it worse. Not by much, anyway.

"Um." Katniss draws invisible circles on the table with her finger, trying to think of what to say. "Want to talk about it?" she asks.

Madge needs little encouragement. "Gale got my job!" she cries into the Formica overlay. Her arms muffle the sound of her voice.

Katniss eyebrows knit together. She didn't expect that. "Excuse me?"

"My job." Madge looks up over the protective circle of her arms. "My department had a management position open. Haymitch said it was as good as mine."

Katniss kindly refrains from pointing out that she should have seen the error right there. Haymitch's promises are hardly binding, and he leaves everything open to interpretation. His own, that is.

"But what happened?" she asks instead.

Madge sits up, accepting a napkin from Katniss to dry her cheeks and nose. "Plutarch Heavensbee completely bypassed Haymitch and hired _Gale_ instead."

"I had a hunch about that," says Peeta to Katniss, carrying in a cheesecake, plates and cutlery, "when Gale told us he'd be working for Haymitch."

"How badly were you counting on that position?" Katniss asks, looking troubled. She wonders if Gale knows that by accepting this job, he cut Madge out?

Madge knots her fingers in her loose hair, like it's the only grip she can get on herself. "I wanted to start saving to put my dad in some sort of day program. He almost set the kitchen on fire today. But that's not going to happen on this salary," she tells them. "His prescriptions alone are killing me. I mean, we're making it fine –" she says quickly before Katniss and Peeta can offer to help. "I just really wanted this job."

She takes a deep breath and allows Peeta to slide a plate between her elbows resting on the table. "I just feel so disappointed. If I didn't have my letters to look forward to, then I don't know what I'd do," she sniffles.

Katniss looks blank. "Letters? From who?"

"I don't know," Madge admits with a blush. "They're anonymous."

"You're writing to a total stranger?" asks Katniss unhappily.

Madge smiles weakly. "He doesn't feel like a stranger. In fact, I wish he was here to wring Gale's neck. No offense."

"We've all felt that way about Gale from time to time," says Peeta sympathetically. "Stop scowling, Katniss. I know you have too."

"That's beside the point," Katniss snipes at Peeta. She says to Madge, "How did this all start?"

Madge sniffles again. "I put an ad in the paper about a year ago."

That doesn't mean anything to Katniss, who stares blankly at Madge.

"A personal ad," Peeta says to help her out. "In the newspaper…I guess you didn't read those much."

"You think?" Katniss mutters. "What's it do? The ad?"

"Well, I just wanted someone to write to about the sort of things I learned in my classes…. Men, specifically." Madge blushes as the look on Katniss's face grows more and more toward consternation. "I had a few replies, most of them duds. In fact, I almost decided to retract the ad, but then I got _his_ letter." She manages a smile. "He wants to talk about the topics I suggest. I got the impression from the other men that they were just humoring me to get a date."

"These people date each other?" Katniss gapes. The Mellarks aren't the best spokesmen for traditional dating. Their circumstances were anything but normal. But writing someone to get a date is far beyond Katniss's ability to understand or desire.

"You should go on dates," says Peeta over his wife. "You don't have to write letters to get one."

"It's not that easy," Madge replies uncomfortably. "The single men I know are painfully shy and too young, or painfully annoying and too old. I guess I don't get out enough to meet more. The intention wasn't to fall in love with him, not really."

"Do you have feelings for this stranger?" he asks carefully.

Madge grows quiet and thoughtful, staring at her uneaten piece of cheesecake. "Well, I don't know for sure. Maybe?" She glances up at them. "We haven't met yet, but…I want to."

Peeta and Katniss look at one another with concern.

…

Gale scrabbles around in the half-light, looking for a switch. He finds it, flicks it on, then waits for the fluorescents to pulse into existence. He finds himself standing in a bare kitchen that smells strongly of cleaner fluids and new paint.

"Welcome home," he mutters to himself. "Hurrah."

He throws a bag of new suits, generously provided by the department, on the kitchen table and pulls out a letter from his coat pocket. He meanders into the furnished living room, takes a look at the bathroom and bedroom. It's an apartment. So what. All the furniture's covered in plastic sheeting and pulled away from the walls. He doesn't bother moving it out of the way when he sits down to read his letter. He feels guilty for not writing one of his own, but between the moving around and whatnot, he didn't get a chance. He'll make it up to her. Maybe he'll write two whole pages for once.

Gale reads to the last line and goes back to read it again. It's just the balm he needs after a first day of a new job. Where does she come up with the things she writes? he wonders. He folds the paper carefully and puts it in his wallet to carry with him.

Gale rummages around in his pack to find his notepad and pen. But when he sets it down on his knees to write he doesn't feel all that inspired – not enough to match her, anyway. Maybe it's just because he's in a strange room and feeling shiftless. Screw this. He's not sitting around by himself all night. He grabs the phone Plutarch gave him and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He dials the number written there.

A trilling, upbeat woman answers the phone amidst a cacophony of children's voices.

"Hello?"

"Er, this is Gale Hawthorne. Is Bristel home?"

…

Twenty minutes after the phone call, Gale narrowly avoids getting smacked in the back by the swinging doors of the Broken Oar when he hears Bristel's voice over the crowd. He easily spots the familiar lanky frame of his old crewmate. They look like they could be cousins in terms of build and coloring: same black hair, angular face with gray eyes. But Bristel's hair curls and there's laughter in his eyes instead of the steady intensity in Gale's.

Bristel slides out of the booth the rest of the way to greet him with a mixture of a hug and a hearty slap on the back. "So, you're back for more, eh?" he greets.

"Sure," Gale says, extricating himself. "Thanks for coming out tonight. I didn't feel like eating alone."

Bristel's still wearing his coveralls from work. There's a mechanist badge sewn onto the right sleeve. Gale called just as he walked into the door of his family's quarters. It's Tansy he should thank, really. She's the one at home with their scads of children. And she seemed to understand that tonight wasn't the best time for Gale to join them for a boisterous family dinner.

"Well, I'm glad you're in Thirteen again. Place isn't the same without you," Bristel says, seating himself in the booth while Gale hangs his coat up on a peg nailed onto the side of the booth. "Even if I do love it down here."

Gale's nose wrinkles in disbelief. "You do?"

"Oh sure. It's grand," he drawls. "Well, except that the kids haven't seen a real tree outside of a pot. Tansy tries to supplement with picture books." He shrugs.

Gale slides along the bench seat across from Bristel, grabbing a laminated menu to browse over. "So, you and Tansy are on what, two sets of twins now?" he asks, trying to remember when he last spoke to his old friend before tonight.

"Three sets, actually." Bristel tries counting off on his fingers. "I'm pretty sure. Who knows anymore. They all look alike. I forget where I started counting." He shrugs again. Gale looks shocked. "Eh, you've been gone for a while."

"I guess," Gale snorts. "Hell's teeth. You and Tansy might want to consider different methods for…you know. I mean, it's only been what…six years for you? They'll have to dig out a whole new level just for your family at this rate."

Bristel laughs good-naturedly. "Well, it's not from lack of planning, Hawthorne. Believe me. Apparently, we're fertile." He spreads his hands in a _what can you do? _gesture. "But it all works out for you, eh? Think of all the advice I'll be able to give when it's your turn."

"Boys and girls?" Gale asks, shuddering to think what advice Bristel would give.

"All girls," says Bristel, revealing the first hint of being overwhelmed. "Seven women in one suite. See why we have to keep having kids? I know there's a boy in here somewhere." He points in the general vicinity of his pants.

A waitress named Ruga comes by, slapping down glasses of water and giving Bristel a look which plainly says that she doesn't want to know. She takes their orders, two beers and some sandwiches. She leaves them with a basket of shelled peanuts, which Bristel digs into with relish.

"So what's the deal? I thought you were some backwoods surveyor," Bristel asks when Ruga leaves.

Gale grabs a peanut, crushing the shell to extract the meat. "I have a shiny government job now. Manager." He smirks. He never thought he's say that. Even as a surveyor, he worked for himself basically, contracted by the Department of District Development, set up through the outreach office.

Bristel grunts. "That's a treat." As far as either man is concerned, government agencies are a hoax designed to rob people of their hard-earned money or keep them living in the dirt. It'll take more than a revolution to get that kind of distrust out of their systems.

"You're telling me," Gale mutters. "And you'll never guess who I work with."

"Who?"

"Remember the mayor's kid?" Gale asks. "Back in Twelve."

"Blond girl." Bristel shrugs.

"They're always blond," Gale points out.

Bristel pops a peanut in his mouth. "Which is why I said it. Can't go wrong." He winks at Gale. "I bet she has blue eyes too."

"Bluer than blue." Gale slides the basket of peanuts back and forth between his hands. "She brought me morphling after Thread had me whipped."

Bristel shudders, remembering. He and their friend Thom helped carry Gale home. They were paid well, but Bristel didn't do it for the money. "Bad night. So, what's her name?"

"Madge."

"She sounds like a nice girl," Bristel says conversationally. "Nice to work with someone you know, too."

Gale scowls, rubbing his jaw. "That's what you'd think. I don't know. She gave me all kinds of attitude today."

"You're in charge, eh? Better nip it in the bud real quick," Bristel warns.

"You bet I will." Gale's not about to let some snotty, ex-mayor's kid walk all over him. Maybe Haymitch lets her get away with it, but Gale won't.

"So what made you want to take this job? You hate it down here, ties are like nooses, and you already had a job." Bristel ticks off each point on his fingers, then spreads his hands. "What's the incentive?"

Good question. Gale's been asking himself that ever since the morning he told Johanna he'd come. Sure, when he accepted the job here in Thirteen, he thought about doing it for the "right thing" and helping the department. Anything to thwart the Jabberjays.

And then, say, he wants to meet the girl he's been writing. He considered what he had to offer her, and it wasn't much. Maybe he's not cut out to be someone wearing a necktie, but the extra cash doesn't hurt and well, it sounds more impressive than leading the Flannel Shirt Squad, McNair's epithet for their crew. Whoever this girl is, he bets he's going to have to impress her.

And sure, maybe he's jumping the gun by thinking that far ahead. He doesn't even know her name. But he's twenty-five, all his friends are settling down. If it's not this girl, it'll be someone else.

Ruga stops by with their drinks. Gale takes a long pull of his beer, then rolls the bottle between his hands before answering. He sat a lot today and it's showing in his restless movements.

"I have the future to think about," he says to answer Bristel's question. He takes a pull from his beer glass. "Suppose a guy is thinking about getting married…"

Bristel beams. "Congrats! Who's the lucky girl?"

Gale makes a sour face. Bristel sure does jump to conclusions. "Now, hold on." He holds up his hand. "I just said _suppose_. I never said it was me."

"Well, I think it's a good idea," Bristel says with conviction. "You know, for whoever's thinking about it," he adds just to humor Gale.

Gale nods. "How much does it cost to live nowadays? Just you and Tansy, no kids."

Bristel gives him a knowing grin. "Why fool yourself?"

Gale laughs self-consciously. Everything's hypothetical at this point – he shouldn't even consider settling down with this girl. _But you never know_, he thinks.

"So?" he asks.

Bristel scratches his head. "You won't be able to go out for beer unless your long lost buddy shows up out of nowhere. But it can be done – and affordably too. I mean, you can't be extravagant." Bristel shrugs. "So, why all the questions? You're thinking about it, eh? Of course you are. Why else would you come back to the Underground you hate so much?"

"Let me show you something." Gale takes out his wallet and flips past photos of his family to the back pocket. He pulls out a thin slip of unlined paper.

Bristel looks at the paper suspiciously. "What is it?"

"This, Bristel, is a letter," he says wryly.

"Fancy."

Gale smirks, handing it over. "You have no idea."

Bristel holds it to his nose. His eyes grow round. "Is that perfume? Who's writing said letters?"

Gale leans forward till his stomach connects with the table. "That's just it…I have no idea. It's completely anonymous. This girl put an ad in the paper. I answered it and here we are."

Bristel turns the folded paper around in his hand like he doesn't know how a letter works. "What are they about?"

"We started talking, I don't know of lofty stuff," he says. "And eventually we got on the subject of love – on a theoretical level."

"Well, what else can you do in a letter?" says Bristel. "You're pretty interested?" The look on Bristel's face translates into _you're pretty crazy._

"Just listen to this." Gale takes back the letter and unfolds the paper and starts reading:

_Are you tall? Are you short? Do you shave? Don't tell me. What does it matter so long as our minds meet? We sift through enough mundane details in our daily lives. Our world is full of hidden ideas and new beginnings, it would be a waste to spend precious paper and ink and words on dull details, so don't let's do it. Don't tell me who you are, but who you wish to be. In our letters we can be anyone, say anything. I dare you. _

Bristel knocks back about half of his beer glass, then licks away the foam on his lip. What does a guy say about an intimate letter written to another guy by some girl that doesn't sound pervy or stupid?

"That's…beautiful?" Bristel goes out on a limb to try.

Gale's sober eyes brighten. "It's poetry. This girl isn't like any anyone I've been interested in before," he tells Bristel.

"I'll say," Bristel mutters. "Poetry. Since when did you like poetry, huh?"

"I didn't think I did until now," says Gale. "Then the letters started coming. Bristel, there isn't another girl like this in the world."

"Gale, normally I allow you to be the wet blanket in our friendship, but as your buddy I just gotta say this: A woman resorting to ads in the paper…well, she's probability ugly and old enough to be your mother." His eyes grow large. "Oh gad, maybe she is your mother. You don't know….because this is a _letter._"

Gale scowls at him Bristel for putting a damper on things. Could this girl he's imagining really turn out to be some old cat lady? He doesn't dare think it.

"Don't point those laser eyes at me, man. I'm just the voice of reason. You should think about this before – that is…you're going to meet her, right?"

Gale shifts uncomfortably. He's been thinking about that. "I'm gonna have to. I've been holding it off, but now that I'm living in Thirteen again I have the opportunity. But…"

"But what if she isn't what you're expecting?"

Gale shrugs. He doesn't want to say it out loud and make the doubt real. Besides, it's only day one of his new life in the Underground. With everything up in the air, he can't possibly add her into the mix just yet. No. He'll have to wait. Even if he doesn't want to hold off – either on the disappointment or the elation.

Ruga arrives with their food and more beer. Gale slips his letter back into the safety of his wallet, then proceeds to pick at his sandwich. Watching the dissection of the sandwich, Bristel decides to take pity on his friend.

"I guess the bottom line is that," he says, "she did write those letters, though, whoever she is."

"Yeah," Gale replies with a small smile. "She did write them."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N: **The title for this chapter comes from the song "Go Places" by The New Pornographers. **Happy Easter to folks who celebrate the holiday. :D **


	5. Hollow Point Smile

A/N: I wasn't able to print this chapter off to fix typos, so I did the best I can. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5 <strong>

**Hollow Point Smile**

* * *

><p><em>Three months later…<em>

Madge hobbles around the corner of the steel scaffolding that frames the side of the walls on Level 1. The reconstruction project has gradually moved inward from the hangar, the customs department, and the executive offices. Now they're working on the department corridors. The sounds of their equipment, the smell of paint and dust, the constant chatter and clanging, give Madge a headache. She resists the urge to use crude gestures when one of the workmen whistle at her before she can slip into the District Outreach office. _Barbarians_.

She's late to work again. Madge blames it on the stupid black high heels she had to wear every single day for three months. They make it near impossible to get anywhere quickly, which is why she always stuck to her sensible flats. But since Gale arrived, she's needed the extra height to stand up to him. He's taller than he has any right to be. And even though the shoes are slowly crippling her, they have the added bonus of built in weaponry – stilettos!

The construction cacophony announces her at the door. Ilona and Terry are the only ones present, their faces turned toward her as she lets herself in.

Madge slumps into her chair, both hands on a steaming cup of coffee. She kicks her shoes off of her throbbing feet, taking note of where they lie under her desk in case she needs to slip them on quickly.

"Late night?" Ilona asks from her desk across from Madge's.

Madge nods.

"Tell me it was a date," Ilona pleads. The older woman knows about Madge's letters, and while she's encouraging, she's pressing Madge to explore _all _of her options. Ilona would have Madge on a merry-go-round of dates every night if she could. Madge suspects that her coworker might be living vicariously through her – though Ilona does mean well. Madge just finds it all a little overwhelming, not being incredibly social herself.

Madge takes a gulp of scalding coffee. "My father decided to go for a walk at three in the morning," she grumbles. The security guard who called her up is now on a first name basis with both of the Undersees.

Ilona's shoulders droop with disappointment. "Oh. I suppose you had to chase after him."

Madge nods again.

"You know, my husband has a younger brother who you might like," Ilona offers. "Although there's about an eight year age gap, but some women like older men like that."

Madge notices poor Terrance turn green, like he usually does when Ilona tries to set Madge up. She wishes Ilona would focus her matchmaking hobby on him, instead. She feels bad that Terry has a crush on her.

"Thanks, Ilona, but no." Then she asks bitterly, "Eyebrows isn't here yet, is he?"

Terry gulps convulsively, like he does every time Madge refers to Gale by an unseemly nickname – or vice versa.

"No, you beat him here," says Ilona hesitantly. The others in the office have taken to speaking very quietly whenever Madge or Gale brings up the subject of the other. It's become a dance of the landmines, in which their very names carry explosive weight under the slightest of pressure.

Madge sets her coffee cup down unevenly and it almost topples over. She manages to save it, then slumps back into her seat with a sigh. "Well, that's good. I can't deal with that monster first thing."

Ilona says with her sweet voice, "Oh, he's not so bad. I clocked in late last week and he stopped me to make sure I wasn't sick or something." Madge shoots her a glare. _Traitor_. Ilona backpedals. "I mean, he's awful. I might be blinded by his stunning good looks."

At one time, Madge might have agreed that Gale Hawthorne is excessively good-looking. A long time ago. "He has a fat head," she mutters instead. "And he always misses a spot just on the back corner of his jaw when he shaves."

Ilona gives her a look that seems to say, _You look that closely?_ Madge busies herself by stirring another sugar packet into her coffee.

"I'm scared of Mr. Hawthorne," Terry confesses. "He's cranky."

Madge gives him a warm smile that softens her eyes. "Now, Terry, there's no reason for you to be afraid of old Bushel Brows," she soothes. Then she adds with a haughty frown, "He's not hard to manage."

The sound of the main door opening, letting in all the hammering and shouting, makes them all freeze. Madge glares at the door just in case it's Gale and he didn't get enough of an eyeful on Friday to last him the weekend.

But Gale doesn't stride through the door, so she lets her eyes relax.

"Good morning, good morning, good morning," Junius trills as he glides around the office in a shiny new suit. "Boss here yet?"

"Not yet," the three answer in tuneless unison, suddenly occupied with looking occupied.

"What's the matter, folks, aren't you awake yet?" Junius smirks at them all, still standing beside his chair.

Just then, the door opens again, and Gale really does stride through with his gray suit jacket tucked under his arm, hell-bent on getting behind the door of his office. Madge's glare isn't ready, having wasted it on Junius, so he misses out. He rumples his hair, asking Ilona if she put on a pot of coffee yet, to which she mumbles something that might be _yes_.

Junius steps in front of him, nearly getting bowled over for his stupidity. "Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne. Lovely day, isn't it?"

Gale gives Trivet a look of open distaste which doesn't seem to make a dent on the older man. "How can you tell under this pile of rocks," he grouses, shouldering around Junius.

"Ah…well, it _feels_ like a lovely day, does it not?" Junius smiles widely at Gale's back. "It's the sentiment that counts."

"Huh."

Gale grabs a clean mug stacked on a tray and the entire carafe of coffee from the counter to hold it hostage in his office.

"Don't anyone go in there until he's had all of it," Madge warns, when the door closes behind him.

Terry gulps. "I'm supposed to see him about programming a communicuff." He slides down deeper into his seat, like a turtle hiding in its shell.

Madge's eyes blaze, causing Terry to disappear even further under his desk. "He gets a communicuff?" she hisses. Her eyes shoot daggers at Junius. "You knew about this?"

"Mr. Abernathy may have instructed me to make such a purchase for our esteemed captain," Junius says haltingly, as though he knotted his necktie too tight.

Madge silently fumes, casting a pall over the room, like the warm, soupy air of a swamp. Every gain for Gale is a loss for her. Not that she particularly wanted a communicuff, but still. All Gale needs is an oversized watch to match his oversized head, and give him one more reason to act like a jerk. Maybe he's overcompensating for something else, she rages uncharitably. Then she blushes, remembering some rumors she heard in high school.

"Madge!" Gale bellows from his office.

She startles in her chair. There's no way he could read her mind or know where her traitorous thoughts were going. She blushes again and prepares herself to begin another day facing off with Gale Hawthorne.

"He can't be done with that entire pot yet," llona speculates incredulously.

Madge rises from her desk. "He didn't. Can't you tell by his voice?"

Ilona doesn't comment on the fact that she can only tell the difference between when he's speaking loudly or quietly, not how coffee may or may not influence the inflection in his voice.

"Well, Terry," says Madge, steeling herself to meet the lion in his den. "This is how you handle him."

Terry looks ready to hyperventilate. Madge squares her shoulders and strolls into the office at a leisurely pace.

…

Gale mills around in the middle of a circle of folders stacked knee high in some places. Pulling them out of the file cabinets seemed so easy, but now that he's surrounded by paperwork, he doesn't know where to begin with the sorting. He thought researching the agency's files would be easier than this. Who'd have thought they'd go through so much paper, let alone keep it all?

Time to call in the cavalry. The one-woman, no horse cavalry. He'd rather cut out his spleen. Not because he couldn't come to appreciate the cavalry, but because said cavalry won't let him get close without running him over.

_Hell's_ _teeth_. Did he just turn Madge into a cavalry metaphor? Damn Mondays. He backs up to the desk with a folder in one hand and dumps some more coffee into his mug. He gulps it down black. The coffee doesn't help him think better, but it gives him something to do.

A dull, fuzzy static starts to grow somewhere behind his forehead as his beverage works its magic on him. When did he get so addicted to the dark stuff?

The sound of the doorknob twisting makes Gale put his mug down and return to the center of ground zero. Madge steps inside. He notices that the frosty blonde looks tired by the way her shoulders don't quite straighten out and her eyelids droop like broken blinds. Good. Maybe she'll be too exhausted to yip at him for the next eight hours when he asks her for help. But her whole face pinches as soon as she claps eyes on him and her eyes get that predatory gleam.

_Nothing doing_, he realizes. Sleeplessness only encourages her inner scamp.

"You called, Mr. Hawthorne?" she says sweetly – too sweetly, like sleep syrup. "Would you like another coffee? How about your shoes polished? Or a lobotomy?"

A lobotomy. Yes, she's in rare form this morning. It's not even ten o'clock. He's now seriously debating the wisdom of asking her in here to help with his paperwork disaster.

Her lips compress together when she notices what he's done to his office.

"You know, the role of the file cabinet is to keep all this mess off the floor," she points out. "I don't suppose they teach you things like that out in the woods."

Gale stares at her for a moment while his blood reaches its boiling point. He wouldn't normally let a passing remark like that get under his skin. But three months worth is another story. If she makes one more crack about him being some kind of backwoodsman, he'll show her what she can do with the file cabinet. He puts the folder down and returns to his desk, trying to think about what he should do – grow a pair and deal with her attitude – or make up a different reason for asking her in here and get rid of her fast. He reaches for a pencil to write with, but gets a good look at the thing first.

He squints at the dull tip, then he seizes upon a reasonable way of dealing with her perpetual nastiness. "Madge, why can't I find a pencil in this office that isn't worn to a nub?"

Madge steps closer to his desk. "Well, I don't know. Let me think." She taps her lips thoughtfully with her finger. "Have you been writing with them?"

"Yes."

"Then I think the diagnosis is that your pencils need to be sharpened and you haven't been doing it. Good afternoon," she chirps as she turns to leave.

"I want you to sharpen my pencil." He scoops up the rest in the cup. "In fact, you can do all of them."

Madge turns around slowly, giving him a look of utmost incredulity, like he just announced that he wanted to sleep with her cat. "I beg your pardon?"

He pushes the pile of dull pencils toward her. "Knock yourself out."

Madge blinks at him for several long moments. "Explain to me why you can't do it yourself?"

Gale points to the file cabinets. All the drawers are askew, spewing folders, and paper stacked on top. "I'm tied up at the moment."

Madge blinks at the pencils, and occasionally at his face, as if waiting for him to announce the joke. Gale lifts his eyebrows in a challenge.

"Wouldn't it be more useful to you, and less insulting to me," she says with a look of deep loathing, "to ask me to help you with the files instead of your pencils?"

"I thought about that, but you seem a little out of sorts this morning." Gale's eyes narrow as he lays the revenge on thick. "So, I'll organize this myself."

Madge purses her lips. "I can see that you have a real knack for organization," she retorts, casting a scornful eye at the mess.

"And I bet you have a real knack for pencils," Gale quips.

She hisses, "Don't be insulting."

"You have something more important going on?" he barks.

Madge plants her hands on her hips. "I'm in the middle of putting together notes for the meeting with Plutarch Heavensbee and the District Defense Committee scheduled for next week so that you don't look like an ass when you try to explain our progress."

Gale cringes. Nobody told him about the horror of committee meetings. A lot of people sit around, say a lot, and accomplish very little. Inefficient and boring as hell. And they create feelings in him that go against the grain of every belief he's ever had – that the meeting would go so much better if it was run by a tyrant who'd just tell everyone what to do and get it over with.

"And how's that going?" he asks grimly.

Madge grudgingly says, "I'm waiting for Haymitch to sign off on last month's report."

Yeah, he bets Haymitch will get right on that, especially since Gale didn't turn it in until yesterday. That means she's stuck until she has that final piece of information. "Then it sounds like the perfect time for a break," he says dismissively. "Pencils. Now. "

Madge looks ready to resort to stamping her foot. Well, she can go ahead. His feet are safely located under the desk, far from her toe pinchers.

"That is not my job," she snaps. "You can't ask me to do it."

Gale points to the nameplate on the door. "Manager, remember?"

And that hits the nail on the head – Gale doesn't give a flying flip about the damn pencils. He doesn't even need to write anything down. It's a matter of principle. He's in charge. She's undermining him. If she wants him to give her big girl tasks, then she needs to grow up and stop acting like a spoiled townie every time he tries to speak to her. As far as he's concerned, she's digging her own hole. Now she can bury herself in it, because he's not backing down.

Madge cocks her head to the side as her frosty eyes bore holes into his skull. "That's right, I work under you," she snipes, fairly shaking from anger. "But let me remind you that it's not that far under."

Madge walks out, slamming the door behind her. Gale waits about two seconds before he whips out of his chair. All the staff glance down nervously to hide their eavesdropping when he bursts from the tiny office into the main room in pursuit.

"That's it, you harpy –"

Madge whirls back around to face him. They nearly collide into one another. She glares up at him while he scowls down at her. Between her heels and his leaning over her, they're nearly chin to nose with only an inch or two of charged space between them.

"I am not sharpening your pencils. You aren't a toddler lacking gross motor skills," she says spitefully. "And you have no right to treat me like this. I'm an administrative specialist, not your lackey. _Terrance_ can sharpen your pencils if you want them so badly. Otherwise I suggest you start using pens. I believe I stocked your desk with plenty of those last week when you demanded them!"

"Well, this week I don't want to use pens," he retorts, fairly itching to grab her shoulders and give her a good shake. "I want pencils."

They barely notice when Ilona draws reluctantly closer. "I-I can sharpen your pencils, Mr. Hawthorne…"

"That's all right, Ilona," says Gale through gritted teeth, not taking his eyes off of Madge. Her glare deepens and he's starting to see red. He says to her, "Look, I don't know what's got your tights in a twist but—"

A chair scrapes back in the periphery of their vision and Junius now approaches. The clerk clears his throat three times. Gale bites back a curse. He turns the force of his cold, gray eyes on the clerk. "What is it now, Mr. Trivet?"

Junius's normal, alabaster veneer has a bright tinge of red. "Well, I think this is an outrage," he says, puffing his chest out like a first prize bantam rooster. "Miss Undersee is not your desk elf."

"Shut up," Gale retorts. What the blaze is a desk elf?

Another door crashes open. "What the hell is going on in here?" Haymitch bellows, emerging from his own office.

Everyone looks over their shoulders in surprise – having all forgotten about Haymitch completely. In the face of not one, but two of his superiors, Junius scuttles off to his desk, leaving Madge to her own defenses.

Madge spins around on her heels to face Haymitch. "Is it expected that I sharpen Mr. Hawthorne's pencil for him or is that something he ought to do himself?"

Haymitch snorts, viewing them through beady, bloodshot eyes. "What you two get up to off the clock doesn't bother me. Just don't bring it to the office."

Madge's mouth drops, shocked and appalled. "That wasn't a euphemism, Haymitch," she says, her voice rising an octave.

"When you're here, you do what he tells you to do," says Haymitch, pointing a meaty finger at her. "And if I have to come out here again because of your caterwauling, I'll have you both written up." He gives them both a nasty glare then huffs back into his dark retreat.

Gale looks smug and holds out the pile of pencils toward her. Madge squares her shoulders and walks over to trembling Terrance's desk, pulling the electric sharpener off the desk, ripping the cord out of the wall. Sparks fly. She returns to Gale's office with the electric pencil sharpener. He follows, watching her curiously. Madge waits until he takes a seat.

She lifts the first pencil, purposefully dips it into the sharpener and proceeds to grind it down as loud and as hard as she can. Then she lifts it up for a few inches away from Gale's nose for him to inspect. She sets it down on the desk with a sharp crack. Then she does the exact same with every pencil in the pile until Gale's face is red and his eyebrows ominous.

"Satisfied?" Madge sneers. Without waiting for an answer, she hops off the desk and makes for the door. But Gale jumps up quickly, slamming his palm against the door so she can't open it. Madge turns around quickly, not realizing that he's all but pinned her to the door. She gasps as he leans over her with a deep glower on his face.

"Miss Undersee, if you ever do that again, I promise I will throw you over my knee and spank you like the little brat you are."

Something frightening sparks in Gale's eyes, sending a zing of adrenaline through Madge. She believes he'll carry through with his promise. She presses herself against the door, wide-eyed. "You dare!"

"I have three younger siblings and plenty of practice." Gale leans into the door, driving home the intimidation angle.

Madge feels for the doorknob. Gale's arm blocks her right side and the wall's on her left. She'll have to talk her way into an escape. "Then you are no gentleman," she stammers. He's so close, she has to look up to see his face. "I'll have you reported."

"To whom? Haymitch?" Gale's lips curl at what he deems a paltry threat. "You heard what he said: one more incident and we're both served pink slips."

Madge huffs. "That was your fault."

"My fault?" Gale gestures toward his own chest. "Maybe if you weren't always pushing my buttons and flagrantly undermining my authority, I wouldn't have to chase you around the office all the time. What's your problem anyway?"

"You give me stupid tasks," she spits, not bothering to deny his accusations about her behavior. She's only surprised by how readily he always rises to the occasion. "You treat me like I'm some brainless minion."

"Doesn't feel very good does it? It probably wouldn't help if I told you I'd originally called you in here to help me with these files," he retorts, relishing the incredulous expression on her face. "But you didn't give me a chance to ask before you started laying on the attitude. So, tell me what's really going on in that head of yours."

Madge glares up at him, but Gale seems impervious, glaring back at her with more force than she's capable of matching. "You're always antagonizing me," she finally says. "Before you came I was full of life and enthusiasm. And now you've crushed me."

She admits that she sounds melodramatic and Gale must agree because he laughs, a great booming sound in this cupboard of an office. She can practically _feel_ him laughing, they're so close. But it's too dry to be pleasant.

"_I_ antagonize _you_?" he exclaims, astounded. "From the first second, you've been shooting daggers at me through those icy blue eyes of yours. What did I ever do to you?"

"You got…," Madge starts, then clamps her hand over her mouth.

Gale steps back from the door and crossed his arms. His eyes are sharp and narrow, sensing her slip. "Got what?"

She puts her hand down, tries straightening some dignity into her shoulders. Her lips are a firm, pink line she doesn't intend to let him pry anything from.

"Out with it, Undersee," he growls.

Madge struggles with the desire to scream the truth at him, and yet, not wanting to give him that kind of power over her. How could she live down the humiliation if Gale actually _knew _that he'd succeeded over her? And that for three whole months she's allowed her bitterness to take center stage just to punish him. He's probably hug himself.

"All right," he says, when he figures she's not going to unbutton her lips. "Let me tell you something. I asked you in here this morning to help me with sorting this mess. Why? Because you're better at it and there's a lot to do. And Haymitch would like nothing better than to fire both of us, but instead of giving him the pleasure, we can start behaving like a bunch of grown-ups. I'll let you help me with this project, but not if you don't back down."

"There's no need for you to be condescending," she retorts.

Gale's eyes roll back into his head and his fingers pulls at his hair. "How is that condescending?" he grouses.

"You're _deigning_ to give me projects, then explaining to me why you've taken them away." She crosses her arms protectively around her middle. "You're probably just bluffing."

"Well, don't expect me to make that mistake again," he snarls, all the angrier for the way she's tramping all over his offer.

Unable to think of any other course of action, Madge takes advantage of his distance to yank the door open. "Gale Hawthorne…," she sniffs, sailing safely to the other side of the threshold, "…I don't like you."

She expects to hear his dry laughter, but it's his silence that burns her ears as she slams the door.  
>….<p>

Gale taps on Haymitch's door after the others leave for the day. He decided to hole himself in his own office after the brutal confrontation with Madge in the morning. Why he ever thought ask her to help him research was a good idea, he'll never know. He should know better after three months of her cold shoulder, bouts of temper and gossiping behind his back.

That's not the girl he remembers. He wonders how Katniss can stand her.

Haymitch doesn't bother dragging his feet of the desk when Gale enters, filling the doorway with his tall frame. Haymitch is using his legs for a paperweight, anyway. If he put his feet on the floor, he might actually have to read the paperwork Gale's been bringing him. "Find anything?" he grunts, hoping for an explanation rather than a new file folder.

Gale shakes his head. "Nothing conclusive."

"And yet a shipment of dynamite was authorized through this department for District 2. Junius got news today that no such shipment was received and nobody from District 2 claims to know anything about a purchase order." Haymitch tosses that dandy of a file at Gale. "We need answers, Hawthorne."

"This Vadas guy didn't leave much of a paper trail. His partner could be anybody from anywhere."

"So why are you bothering me then?" Haymitch mutters.

Gale stubbornly sticks to his spot in the doorway. Haymitch doesn't like feeling his escape routes blocked, but every time he invites or bullies Gale into sitting in a chair like a civilized human being, Gale rebuffs him. They're probably acting from the same instinct. Gale's keeping his escape near at hand.

"How long am I supposed to stick around here, Haymitch?"

"Until the job's done."

Gale stares at Haymitch until the old drunk starts feeling uncomfortable. Not many men have that effect on him.

"Okay, so explain to me who would have gotten this job if I hadn't come?" Gale finally says.

"Took you long enough to put two and two together," Haymitch snorts. "The rest should be obvious."

"Madge?"

Haymitch slides the bottom drawer of his desk open and pulls out a bottle. "Chalk up one for your side."

"Thanks for the heads-up," Gale growls. "A warning might have been nice." Not to mention that it'd save him three months worth of Madge-induced headaches.

"Same here, cupcake." Haymitch breaks the seal, twists off the cap and takes a pull of warm sparkling water. His face twists with disgust. _Dammit, Effie_. He coughs. "Plus, you have such an appealing personality. I _can't imagine_ why she'd want to gut you."

"It's not my job to be her best friend. I'm her boss. If she can't handle it, that's her deal," Gale grouses. "I bet she's not used to hearing someone tell her can't have whatever she wants."

"You think that if it makes you feel better."

Gale shoots a glare at Haymitch. "Plutarch gave me the job. It's his problem if she's unhappy, not mine."

"Yeah, why should you feel bad about taking a job someone else worked hard for? You were an underprivileged kid all your life. To hell with human decency."

"You're one to talk." Gale reaches for the door, to shut it on Haymitch so that he can stop pretending and reach for the bottle of white liquor in his file cabinet. "Forget it. I'm clocking out."

Haymitch shouts after him, "A good boss takes the time to find the reasons behind interpersonal conflict, Hawthorne. Maybe you should get your head out of your ass long enough to consider that maybe Madge is in the right where you're concerned."

"Let me know when you get the supervisor of the month award, Haymitch," Gale retorts, slamming the door. "I bet it'll be soon!"

"I wish I could fire you," Haymitch shouts through the door.

"I wish you could too!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Title compliments of "Bulletproof Heart" by MCR. I imagine Madge's smile can be rather deadly when she has a mind for it. ;)


	6. Close Encounters

**A/N:** I had avoided writing actual letters that weren't straight from the play, instead only referring to them, but since there seems to be an interest, I wrote one. I apologize if it causes anyone gastrointestinal or emotional agony. ;)

Also, many thanks to anonymous reviewers! :D

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

**Close Encounters**

* * *

><p>Gale bursts out of the office like a man out of a mineshaft, only to realize that he forgot his suit jacket once he's past the scaffolding. Well, let the jacket stay there. If he goes back for it, Haymitch might come up with some more useful advice. Gale's in no mood to hear it. Plus, he's got this week's letter to catch before the post office closes for the night. The corridor on Level 1 belched out the greater amount of traffic an hour earlier, so he's got the run of the place. Gale takes the stairs down from Level 1 to Level 4 to burn off steam. Even if it isn't faster than the lifts, his body could use the distraction after being keyed up all day.<p>

The squeaky dress shoes they make him wear every day slip and squawk all over the concrete floors, but he still takes it at a run. What he wouldn't give for his work boots. Nobody gets underfoot in the stairwell, but on Level 4 it's a little trickier. The noise level rises to a tuneless babble. Gale maneuvers around bodies and benches and fruit stands. When did so many little kids start wandering around with adults? He almost runs over a couple of them. Well, it's a lesson learned for all of them.

Through the all-glass façade of the post office, Gale can see the tubby, middle-aged clerk letting himself out from the half-door of the front desk with some keys dangling from his finger, probably hoping he can lock the doors a few minutes early. He frowns when he spots Gale heading his way at full tilt and decides to sweep up instead.

Gale slides through the door with a nod at the clerk, as if to say, _Yeah, I've had a long day too. I'll get out of your hair in a split. _Gale stuffs his key into the lock of 451, turns it, then he swipes the pink envelope out of the mailbox. She's always right on schedule with her letters. He holds it to his nose and breathes deeply. Smells good. It does something funny to his body.

Gale triumphantly waves the pink envelope at the clerk before letting himself out. The man blinks at him while he clutches the broom handle. Once Gale's safely on the other side of the glass, the clerk quickly locks up for the night.

The envelope in Gale's hand makes up for about half of what he had to put up with today. He'll let it cancel out his annoyance with Haymitch. He trots over to a bench in a little seating area surrounded by potted plants and tears open the envelope before he sits down.

Gale scans the letter. He can tell before he reads a word that she's still having trouble with some jerk she mentioned a few times. Her handwriting tends to slant more when she writes about him. She doesn't say who it is, or how she knows the guy, because they keep those details to themselves. You know, that whole anonymous thing. But she asks him for advice, couching it as a "suppose someone were to…." Gale gives her the kind of advice he's given himself in his situation with Madge. One, don't give him an edge. Two, offense is the best defense, and three, don't let him intimidate her.

Advice number four, which he didn't mention, _meet me so that I can give the guy a sock in the nose for you_. Gale wrote that, then crumpled up the letter to start over again. Not because he doesn't want to meet her, but hell's teeth, are they ready? They're going to have to get a good look at one another sometime, though. There's only so much a man and a woman can do in a letter, and they've running the gamut.

_Dear Friend, _

_Thank you for your recent advice. I've tried to implement it, but it appears that perfection will only come with practice. I think I've discovered my basic problem. I've spent so long looking at the big picture, the megalomaniacs, the system that creates dictators, etc., that I missed one thing. I'm talking about the tyrants in our daily lives. The ones we rub shoulders with every day. What of them? If we overlook, nay, tolerate these individuals in lowest level of civilized society, it's no wonder men or women like Snow can seize power. We practically hand it to them…. _

She has his sympathy. They seem to be in a similar predicament. Although he's starting to wonder if maybe there aren't some individuals, say Madge, who need a big jerk in their lives to keep them from taking the "lowest level of civilized society" hostage. The brat is out of control. Maybe he should ask for advice from his friend about dealing with curmudgeonly females with threatening shoes.

But why waste paper on Madge? The last thing Gale needs is to let her take over another aspect of his life. She's like a weed. The woman writing to him is so far superior in thought and attitude to Madge, it's disrespectful of Gale to even think about them in the same sentence. And that's the exact difference: Gale respects his friend, and has none for Madge, who hasn't earned one jot of it. He banishes her from his thoughts so that he can finish reading his letter.

…_Sorry to bore you with vague details. Have you read "Uncommon Sense" yet? I finally found a copy at the library. I wish I could see the expression on your face when you read it_.

_Yours, Dear Friend. _

A crooked, half-grin threads over Gale's face. There's a broad hint. He gets the feeling that she's going to get him to ask her to meet instead of just saying, _Hey, mister, how about a drink?_ He doesn't mind. He just needs to work up the nerve, read the books…and square away a few loose ends.

Gale folds the letter and stores it in his wallet. He gazes thoughtfully at the worn leather, like maybe it will cough up some answers for him. Now it's Gale's turn to write. Is he going to ask her to meet him or not? The thing is, he can't decide if he's in love with her or not unless he's gotten a good look at her. Or until he hears what her voice sounds like. And what about those loose ends?

The after-dinner crowd has started to thin out around the level, but it's still busy. He should head home, but he doesn't want to go back to that empty place any sooner than he has to. He's still not used to it, yet. That's the difference between living with his family and living by himself. It's just not home when he's alone.

He loiters around Level 4 for a while longer. It's the heart of the underground community, where he can wander anonymously and look busy. He grabs food from a kebab vender, eating the entire thing without tasting it (probably a good thing). The sounds of hawkers peddling their wares, mixed with the garbled conversations and haggling in the marketplace insulates him with his thoughts.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of gold and immediately turns to his head to follow the sight. It's a woman's long, blonde hair. The sight of it seems to fill his stomach with lead pellets. He doesn't know how he knows with only the back view to go by, but he's certain it's Madge Undersee.

He hasn't seen her with her hair down in years.

Madge enters a music store. The storefront display windows allow him to watch her approach the shopkeeper. The man nods with haughty solemnity at something she says, but looks pained by it. Gale doesn't blame him one jot, no matter what she said.

Madge sits down at one of the pianos near the window. _What is going on there?_ he wonders. Gale decides, despite the blatant stalkerishness of the situation, to find a discrete place to stand so he can watch her play. He can't hear it, but her fingers move over the keyboard, playing a song from memory. He wonders if she plays by rote or with style. Is it a folk song, like Katniss would sing along with or is it some lofty concerto written by a guy with a funny wig on his head. He figures it's the latter. She wouldn't insult a man in a powdered wig – just some young guy with a nice head of his own hair.

An inspiration hits Gale, which excuses him from acting like a creep. Would Haymitch count this as trying to get to the bottom of his employee? Sure, why not? So far, all Gale can figure out from this is that she bugs storekeepers to play their instruments because she's too cheap to buy a piano of her own.

An elderly man accidentally bumps shoulders with Gale, trying to get by. Gale steps aside with a muttered, "Excuse me."

"Oh, pardon me," the stranger says apologetically without really looking at Gale.

Gale watches the old man trod into the shop. Madge starts to get up when he approaches the piano, but he waves her back onto the bench. It dawns on Gale that the man must be Mayor Undersee. He looks twenty years older than Gale remembers. She begins to play something else while old Undersee watches. It's a short piece, Gale guesses, because she stops and Mr. Undersee claps. The shopkeeper comes back to speak to them, then they leave after that. Gale ducks into the shadowy doorway of a closed-down laundromat to keep out of view when they emerge from the doorway. Madge and her father slowly stroll toward the laundromat.

She threads her arm through her father's. "What did you think?"

"It's a lovely piano forte," says Mayor Undersee. His voice has that seamless, generic accent that public speakers tend to have. Only it's not chirpy like the Capitol tools he worked for.

"Not as nice as Grandmother Undersee's grand, though," Madge sighs. Her eyes get a sad, sentimental look in them. Out of all the things to miss about Twelve, Gale wonders why she'd pick a piano.

Mayor Undersee pauses next to a potted plant display. "I do miss hearing you play, my dear. It's too bad about the price."

Madge puts a brave smile on her face. "Never mind, Dad," she says, with a breezy wave of her hand. "If I owned it, I'd have to tune it and dust it - it's hardly worth the work. Besides, we don't even have room for an upright."

Yeah, they didn't get the Emperor-sized suite, Gale mentally grumbles. Just the Princess-and-her-entourage-sized one. It's probably filled with boxes of her pointy shoes. He wonders if she's a cat lady.

"We could get rid of the table and keep it in the kitchen," Mayor Undersee suggests with humor.

Madge wrinkles her nose, though with amusement. "And stand up to eat off of it every night, I suppose? Ooh, no, we can get some of those barstool like a diner," she replies. Gale's never heard her tease like this. Who'd have thought that beneath the brat there's a real girl in there with a sense of humor. Well, "realish." _Let's not be hasty, Hawthorne. _

Mayor Undersee pats her hand, still on his arm. "That's a happy thought."

Madge shakes her head and laughs. It's an alien sound, in Gale's experience. He didn't know she could do it without sounding derisive.

"Don't get rid of the kitchen table just yet, Dad," she says, "I'd have to work three more jobs to afford the piano and everything else. Speaking of which, did you remember to ask your doctor to forward me the new payment plan information?"

"Yes, it's in my top pocket," Mayor Undersee answers, deciding to move again. "I looked it over myself. Hopefully it will be easier on you."

"I hope so," says Madge wistfully.

Gale lets them slip away with the crowd. He wonders where Mrs. Undersee is. At home, probably. He steps out of the shadows to consider what he should do next, and then abruptly slaps his forehead. An old lady nearby gives him a disapproving glare. He glares back and she scuttles away.

_Hell's teeth_, he mutters inwardly, glaring at the world at large. Without realizing it, Gale has let Madge hijack him again. What was he going to do before Madge's hair distracted him?

Oh.

Loose ends.

He promptly feels unsettled, like he's getting eaten up inside. Why?

Well, there's one glaring reason. Something he needs to square away before he can pursue anyone in earnest. He feels rotten enough to get it over with today, since he really can't make the day worse.

Gale locates a directory terminal, looks up the index of residents, then takes himself to Level 5 on the stairway.

The nondescript corridor looks the same as every other residential floor in the Underground. Though he'd feel better if there were neon signs that read, _Warning: freak married couple ahead_. Then he wouldn't feel like he's walking into a trap. Gale braces himself, then knocks on the door bearing the address he found.

After a minute, the peephole darkens. Then the door slowly opens, revealing Johanna Mason Heavensbee. Gale notices her legs first, standing there in all their shapely glory from beneath a bronze, silk dress. She leans heavily on one of her hips, taking in the sight of him standing on her threshold in a suit. Well, most of a suit.

Gale lifts his eyebrows by way of a greeting. "Pretty dress," he says ironically. Jo must be fairly whipped if Plutarch's managed to wrangle her into one of that fancy getup. She's not wearing any jewelry, though, except a ring. And if anything, her hair looks even more spiky and lethal.

"Gale? I didn't expect to see you around." Her voice has a throaty, lounge quality to it, the same kind she had when she talked him into accepting the job. It rankles his nerves. "It's been what…three months?"

"About," he says indifferently, glancing down the deserted corridore. "Are you going to let me in?"

Johanna looks over her shoulder at something in the apartment, then back at him. She shrugs. "Sure."

Gale steps into the short hallway. It leads straight ahead into the kitchen. On the right, another hallways leads to bedrooms and on the left, the living room. The place looks different from other quarters he's visited and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it's the wall paper – real paper. No paint or whatever.

"Fancy," he says, looking at the expensive sconces on the walls, the deep carpet, the decorative wood table with a bowl of potpourri on it. "I didn't take you for a gold digger. You didn't do half bad."

"Shut up, Gale," she says smoothly. "This way."

Jo leads him toward the nicely furnished living room. She steps inside, but Gale stops at the threshold. Now he's got the willies.

Plutarch is there, sitting on a couch with a pile of spreadsheets strewn out in front of him. He's wearing an honest-to-god dinner jacket to look over paperwork. _Can't_ _leave work at the office_, Gale thinks. And who gets that dressed up for a meal?

Jo crosses her arms, still leaning on her hip like she's stuck that way. "Gale Hawthorne dropped by for a visit, Plu," she tells her husband.

_Plu? _Hell's teeth.

"Good evening, Mr. Hawthorne," says Plutarch, watching him through a pair of glasses resting low on his nose. Gale gets the feeling that the older man's sizing him up. "Is everything ship-shape at the office?"

Gale clears his throat. "Yeah, great. I just, eh, came to ask Jo a quick question, if you don't mind." Gale cringes inwardly. What is he asking permission for? Normally, a guy can't just barge in on another man's wife to shoot her questions. He'd never do that to Bristel. But Plutarch Heavensbee ignored the whole "don't run off with another man's girlfriend" rule. Manners shouldn't enter into their acquaintance.

Gale used to be better at holding grudges.

Jo and Plutarch exchange some silent communication. Gale's actually kind of surprised to see her eyes do this soft thing couples tend to do when they look at each other. Peeta Mellark has that down to an art. Gale knew he was a sucker, but he didn't figure Johanna for one.

"Oh, well, you two are old friends from the army. I suppose you'd like to catch up," says Plutarch, standing up.

Gale guesses Plutarch could put it that way, but it's a very watered down version of things. But if Plutarch knows all about Gale and Jo's sordid past, he doesn't let on. Gale kind of wishes he would. He wouldn't mind getting into a fist-fight tonight. Not after the warm-up he got with Madge.

"I think I'll go get a newspaper," Plutarch tells Johanna as he joins them in the hallway.

"Pick me up some cigarettes," she replies.

Plutarch kisses her on the cheek with his puffy lips and leaves.

When Plutarch's gone, Gale gives her a sidelong glance. "You smoke?"

Jo frowns, playing with the ring on her finger. She doesn't look at him. "Sorry, that's an inside joke. Nobody's allowed to smoke down here," she says. "Come into the kitchen."

He follows her deeper into the living room, where an arch connects the living room to the kitchen. He whistles when he gets a good look at it: Marble counters that look like they've never been used. Fancy plates and goblets stand upright in a hutch. And the refrigerator looks big enough to fit Plutarch's entire body – no small feat.

"Don't tell me you cook now," he jabs. Eating cold tuna out of the can doesn't count. They had plenty of meals like that before.

"No, we pay a cook to do that." Jo turns to face him with a look that makes him think of dry white wine. She leans against a counter and purses her lips. "You haven't been home yet tonight," she observes. "Nice suit. Gray's your color."

Gale looks down at himself. His polished black shoes reflect the overhead lighting. He didn't come here to talk about his clothes or that fact that he's the agency's costumed pet monkey. He tries shoving his hands in his pockets, but they aren't the kind that are meant for the honor. Confounded suits and their shallow pockets! He lets his arms fall to his sides.

"Your husband doesn't mind that I'm here?" Gale asks, opting to stand in the corner on the opposite side of the kitchen. If she was hiding an ax, he'd be semi-safe.

Jo shrugs. "Should he?" she asks pointedly.

"Not for my part," says Gale, while imagining Plutarch with a bloody nose.

"What brings you, then?" Her eyebrows arch over her sharp eyes, like she's trying to see right through him. "I'm assuming you aren't looking for tips on interior design."

"I want to know what happened," he tells her. "After this long, you still owe me an explanation."

"Okay." Jo's fingers twitch where they rest on the counter. Her other hand ruffles the short hair standing out on her head. "God, I really should take up smoking."

Gale waits for her to start explaining. Jo looks like she's wrestling with herself and possibly sweating. She'd be stupid not to expect the subject to come up eventually. Still, she doesn't look prepared. Maybe three years lulled her into a false sense of security. All the more reason never to do anything you'd hate to explain later.

Gale finally just asks the brutal question: "How long were you seeing both of us?"

Jo flinches. Her jaw works as she forces herself to answer. "Not long," she says, sounding gritty. "It wasn't that…it wasn't a conscious thing. We didn't even go on a formal date or…"

"Sleep together?" he injects.

Jo glares at him for "helping."

"Look, you were gone – everyone left – to fight and I was stuck here by myself," she gripes. "Everyone except Plutarch. Who else was I going to talk to between panic attacks besides those jerk doctors?"

Gale crosses his arms. "I came back," he says darkly. "You're telling me you were already falling for him before _that_?"

"I guess," she says, picking at invisible crumbs on the counter. "I don't know. It started long before I realized what had happened."

Great. He goes to fight a war and a fat, old guy swoops in and his girlfriend's too disconnected to figure out what the heck she wants. It sounds so familiar, but a lot more twisted. And they're not even done.

"So why run off? Why not tell me to my face that you were breaking up?" he asks. "It would've been nicer than the announcement I got in a newspaper when _Mr. and Mrs. Heavensbee _returned from their whirlwind honeymoon."

Jo shrugs. "It's what I thought I needed at the time, and I'm a coward when it comes to this interpersonal stuff."

"No kidding," Gale mutters. "And Plutarch, being the important official that he is, just agreed to elope?" he asks skeptically.

"That part was his idea," she explains peevishly. "We were…together…one night and he just asked me to marry him. Then it was like, why not right now? What was the point of waiting? I don't know. When he makes up his mind about something, he doesn't waste time."

_Well, thanks for the courtesy_, Gale grouses inwardly. "So what's the attraction? He's an ex-Gamemaker who probably helped with your Games. He's old. He's from the Capitol. Did I mention that he's old?"

Jo's eyes flash when she looks at his stony face. "Look, I don't expect you to understand. I know he's all those things. He was also a pivotal member of the rebellion. And he…makes me feel taken care of. I don't have to feel like I'm always looking over my shoulder and he's not so…intense." She gestures useless at the air. "I mean, I'm intense enough for both of us."

"I was too intense?" Gale grouses. She accused him of not being there enough and now of being too intense? She's talking him in circles.

Jo touches her hair again, like she's pulling her answers from it. "That and I got the feeling that you weren't 100% available," she says bluntly.

Gale's eyebrows nearly get lost in his hairline. He can't believe she's blaming this on him. "Because of Katniss?"

Jo shakes her head. "Not just Katniss. You're not committed to the whole big idea of Panem. I don't think a part of you ever left Twelve."

"Yeah, I became a soldier of the Underground because I'm so stuck on Twelve," he retorts. "I haven't returned once and I don't ever plan to."

"Are you sure about that?" she challenges.

Gale doesn't want to discuss this – nothing but pain lies down that road. Why else would he avoid going home for so long? It'd only remind him that his life didn't turn out at all like he'd expected it to – to his disappointment. Standing here in this kitchen proves how far he's sunk. If he didn't have his letters, he wouldn't have much of anything he's pleased about.

"Forget it," he says, heading toward the hallway. "Forget I asked."

Jo pushes off the counter, grabbing his arm to stop him. "No, I think it's about time we got this out. I know that I messed up and I'm sorry about what I did to you," she says quickly. "I mean, if I had been mentally stable, then they probably wouldn't have locked me up once or twice."

He glares at her and she drops her hand. "And Plutarch married you knowing that you were a nutjob?"

Jo doesn't bat an eye. That's one thing he did like about her. She doled out plenty of abuse and she could take it too. "That's the thing with people like Plutarch. They see the potential in something or someone. Even if they sometimes use it for skewed things, like ranking tributes. He knew I could get better."

Gale snorts. "And you couldn't with me?"

"We would have torn each other apart," she says with complete certainty. "We fed on everything that was negative about each other. I mean, look at us."

Gale wonders if that's a line Plutarch fed her during one of their "potential" talks. "We would've been fine," he grouses.

"Don't flatter yourself," Jo retorts.

Gale and Jo regard one another under a stony silence. Gale tries to hash out all the different thoughts assailing him. She approached him. They went out off and on, then more consistently while they were training. He never intended to make Jo his wife. Did he? No. Not with a war on. Besides, Jo didn't seem like the type. She was the kind of girl you said things to that you couldn't say in front of your mother. Not the kind you brought home _to_ your mother. Maybe that's the fundamental difference between Plutarch and Gale. The old codger didn't have a mother to worry about. He could marry Jo for all the reasons old guys married young women.

And when she left in the middle of the night without a word, he'd felt humiliated. But it made him realize that she was a powder keg. It's all fun until it blows up in your face.

Jo laughs darkly, startling Gale from his thoughts and ending the silence.

"Admit that part of you feels relieved," she says with a low, corrosive voice.

All right, he admits it. Even if he doesn't agree with her assessment of their relationship – clearly, Jo and Plutarch are on a merry-go-round and he'd rather not climb on board. They're both selfish and strange and completely deserve one another.

Now that he's got that squared away in his mind, nothing's holding Gale back from pursuing something further with the girl in his letters. He couldn't honestly meet her if he had any reservations or regrets about Jo. Now he just wonders what he thought he was getting himself into by hooking up with her in the first place.

"Well, I guess that's that," he mutters. "I'd better go before your husband gets back. You two give me the willies."

"Don't sugar coat it, Hawthorne, we can take your honest opinion," she says sardonically, allowing him to step out into the hallway.

"I never do."

Jo shows Gale to the door, but blocks him from leaving again. "So, did you get what you came for?" she asks.

"Sure." In scads.

She frowns. "You know, the only thing that surprises me is that you haven't found someone else yet," she says, suggesting that perhaps he hasn't completely gotten over her. In true twisted Johanna fashion, she seems to like the idea. Hello, merry-go-round.

Gale gives her a cocky look. "Who says I haven't?"

Jo steps away from the door, crossing her arms. "I haven't seen her."

"You haven't seen much of me, either." Gale shows himself out the door, saying impudently. "She has good taste. You wouldn't like her."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	7. The Dog Days are Over

**Chapter 7**

**The Dog Days are Over**

_"If you never say your name out loud to anyone, they can never ever call you by it."_

* * *

><p><em>The next day…<em>

When Ilona, Terry and Junius leave at five o'clock, Madge congratulates herself for making it through a whole workday without a blowout with _that man_. He doesn't deserve the peace, but she'd like to keep her measly little job collating agendas she had to write herself and double-checking line graphs with data…and making sure_ that man_ has a fresh box of tissues on his desk, as per his request this morning. He showed no signs of a cold and she doubts he needed them for a good cry. He probably doesn't have the capacity.

The tissues were a farce, just like the pencils and the pens and everything else before that. Madge suspects that he's teasing her on purpose and the more she rises to take the bait the more he'll goad her. He as good as admitted it yesterday with those damn pencils. Well, she'll show him that she can be equally as infuriating as a "yes woman" as she can be as a renegade intern. Just look at Junius. He's probably Gale's second to least favorite and all the man does is fawn all over Gale. Well, except for that one time when he told Gale she wasn't his desk elf. Madge allows herself a giggle. The look on Gale's face…

She has no intention of fawning over Gale, however. Although, Gale's behavior seemed unusually subdued today, which partially helped keep them from performing a repeat of yesterday. He barely made an appearance in the main office, and when he did, he didn't seem to see anybody, least of all her. He has a bad habit of scrunching the back of his hair when he's thinking hard about something, she's noticed. Other than holding his coffee cup, his hand didn't seem to be anywhere else. Not that she cares. His hands can go wherever they want.

Well, not anywhere _literally_. If he ever wound his fingers in her hair she'd kill him with a letter opener.

Madge allows herself to imagine what that face-off would look like, then decides it's time to get back to her work. She rolls her shoulders to release the tension in her muscles after hours of sitting at her desk, while her stomach gurgles from skipping lunch. Madge picks up her pen and chews the end of it, trying to regain her concentration and forget about food.

Each graph checks against the data. The lines are in the right place. She now has to incorporate them into the presentation. Tomorrow she'll have to explain the whole presentation to both Gale and Haymitch so they sound intelligent. She won't receive credit.

Check, check and check.

The problem with Haymitch and Gale, she reflects, that they both seem to know _something_, but the daily doings of the District Outreach agency don't seem to interest either of them. Madge has no idea what that _something_ is. She suspects that if Junius sent District Four a whole herd of elephants and trapeze artists, The Big Three (as Madge has coined Heavensbee, Haymitch and Hawthorne) wouldn't care as long as all of the invoices were signed. Haymitch would suggest to his friend Finnick Odair that they start a circus, with the bronze-haired Victor as the star attraction.

Well, it would bring in revenue. Maybe she'll suggest it at their next department meeting just to see Haymitch turn red. Redder. More red?

"Ugh." She pushes her fingers of her free hand through her tightly-coifed hair, unable to think straight. Her body feels tired and chewing pens doesn't help.

"What are you still doing here?"

Madge startles in her chair, nearly dropping her pen. She quickly tries to cover it up and appear cool and detached. She forgot Gale would have to come out of his lair eventually. She hoped he'd stay put until she made up her hour and a half and left. But here he is, with his tie untied and his suit jacket probably stuffed in a desk drawer. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing that communicuff Terry helped him program. What he has to use it for, she'll never know. Someone wrangled him into a merino wool suit vest, which he left buttoned. Madge _supposes_ the piece does something flattering to his chest in the way it draws the eye to the lines of his shoulders down to where his waist tapers slightly. Someone more objective than Madge _might_ think he's well-proportioned and trim. Whoever chose his cloths for him knew what they were doing – Madge knows he couldn't have figured out the world of professional menswear for himself –which explains the necktie. For the first time, she wonders if he has a girlfriend. Katniss never said, but then they always steer clear of the subject of Gale or work since that first night she cried on their table. She wonders if Gale had a similar experience. Only, he's more likely to punch a hole in the wall, than cry puddles in their dining room.

Gale made it halfway to the coffee counter before he must have realized that she still occupies her desk. His body faces the counter, so she only has the view of his side, but his head is turned to watch her. The dark fringe of hair over his forehead is brushed off to the side. His eyes are narrow and suspicious, as though he knew they couldn't go one day without a skirmish and she must be lying in wait for him now that any witness are gone.

"I punched in late this morning, remember?" she says dismissively, staring pointedly at her monitor screen. She doesn't tell him, of course, that this morning was his fault. She arrived late because she almost ran into him at the post office where she noticed he bought a roll of stamps before dropping a letter into one of the bins. She couldn't see which slot he used, but she assumes it was the out of town one since his family doesn't seem to be around in the Underground. Who else would he write to? Instead of having to face him even earlier than usual, she hid until he left. And it was a waste because no letter waited for her in box 237.

Gale turns toward her fully, giving her a frown. "But you worked through lunch."

So he had noticed? That unnerves Madge. She likes observant people to look observant, so she knows what to expect. Madge glances up at him irritably, struggling to keep her curt attitude to herself.

"I had to make up for time I missed last week, as well," she flatly admits.

Gale finishes the short trek to the counter and fills his mug with tepid coffee. No cream or sugar. Just like him.

"Sounds chronic," he points out, with is side to her.

Madge sets her pen down and folds her hands on her desk. "Gale, if you're going to reprimand me, please just do it," she sighs. "I'm not in the mood for games."

Gale's thick eyebrows crawl upward on his forehead. "I wasn't going to reprimand you," he drawls. "I don't care if you never eat lunch again and go home at midnight, as long as you get your work done."

"A noble sentiment," she mutters under her breath. Without the threat of getting yelled at looming over her, Madge unlocks her fingers and picks up her pen again to doodle on a notepad nearby, feigning busyness. She can't concentrate on her real work when he's hovering.

Gale glances at his communicuff on his free hand, then back at Madge. "Incidentally, how often do you stay late like this?"

Madge drops her pen and turns to give him wide-eyed look. "Don't you look at our timesheets before you sign off on them?" she asks, flabbergasted.

Gale shrugs. "I leave that to Haymitch." He sips coffee, watching her over the rim.

"But we could be cheating the office out of hours and you'd never know it," she blusters. Not that any of them would, but still.

"Your paychecks don't come out of my wallet," he says carelessly. "Besides, at least one of you is being honest."

Madge rolls her eyes, fuming about what an absolute idiot he is. The whole department is turning into a farce right before her eyes. What's worse, Haymitch and Plutarch let it happen. For one smidge of a second, she's partially grateful she isn't in Gale's place. All of her efforts to improve this agency would probably be in vain and prematurely age her. She hopes Gale enjoys the gray hairs coming his way.

"You and Haymitch are perfect for each other, you know that?" she tells him wryly. "It's like watching a train wreck."

"You've never seen a train wreck."

Gale walks over to Terry's desk, where he pulls out the chair, spinning it to face her, and puts his coffee down. He folds into it easily, though his long legs sprawl into the space between the desk and hers. She quells the urge to back up her chair and regain some personal ground, but doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. He picks up his mug when he's comfortable and takes a gulp of coffee. She notices that he winces and she suppresses a smirk. Ilona made that pot _hours_ ago. Her coffee's passable when it's fresh, but tastes like battery acid and tree bark when it's not.

Madge's smirk disappears altogether when he stares at her with unreadable, slate gray eyes. "You know, I heard an interesting story," he says slowly, with a thoughtful frown.

Madge gives him a bored look, but doesn't deign to reply. She doubts he's gossiping and if he's here to make a point, he'll do it without her participation. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of appearing interested anyway.

"Apparently someone else was supposed to get my position back in March." The expression on his face tells her clearly that he knows exactly who that "someone" is.

Madge's blood runs cold and her stomach feels like it's filled with ice chips. She can't even blink as Gale dumps his new-found knowledge on her. Either Haymitch or Plutarch Heavensbee told him – she doubts Ilona would betray her, and Terry's still too afraid of Gale to have an actual conversation around something other than a new gadget. Junius might have stooped to telling him, but Gale barely gives Junius the time of day.

After the initial chilling shock, anger mushrooms in her chest as the whole stupid situation returns to confront her again after three months. Her cheeks burn as her anger warms her blood. She wishes the whole thing would just go away and that she could forget it. But she can't – and _why_ – she wonders, with a fresh bloom of anger – would Gale tell her that he knows all about it? Why rub it in her face? He probably feels she deserves it after the way she's acted toward him since day one.

Madge drums her fingers over the top of her desk, playing the imaginary notes of a soothing song like the one she performed yesterday for her father. It's the only way to keep herself from reaching out to scratch Gale's eyes out.

"Haymitch," Gale says to answer her unspoken question with a knowing expression on his face, "if you're wondering. I asked him and he told me."

"I suppose you've come to crow in triumph," she replies sharply, refusing to look at him. Her body feels hot and cold all over, as anger, spite and self-pity wash over her in waves. It takes all she has to keep her strained composure intact.

Gale watches her fingers for a moment. Then he remembers himself and says, "Nope. Just thought it explained a lot." He gets up from the desk, taking his mug. A suggestion hangs in the air, but instead of acknowledging it, he simply says, "Well, I'm going home."

Madge watches him retreat into his office. After a minute or two, he returns with his wrinkled jacket slung over his shoulder. His fingers are back in his hair, showing his mind has already wandered off somewhere else beyond the office. Neither one of them says a word. He exits through the main door, underneath the scaffolding in the corridor, with his lips pressed into a determined line. The expression leaves Madge to wonder if he's facing down a bull or bracing himself to fight for a space on the elevator.

That's nonsense. He always takes the stairs.

Madge sits back in her chair when the door locks behind him and promptly pinches the bridge of her nose. Tears prick the back of her eyes, but she refuses to cry. She's done enough of that over her career. The trouble is, the job debacle doesn't explain _everything_. Now Gale just thinks she's a sore loser – and he's partially right. She _is_ a sore loser. Running second to someone as incompetent as he can be goes against the grain, yet her feelings go so far beyond wounded pride. Madge, however, is in no mood to explain her personal circumstances to Gale Almighty Hawthorne, office champion, a member of the League of Extraordinary Idiots, and the Big Three.

The wall clock ticks loudly in the empty office and disrupts her miserable thoughts. Madge peers at it through watery eyes. Staying late cost her a trip to the post office today. She knew she wouldn't be able to make to Level 4, but knowing that the place locked up while she sat here working on her project and getting harangued by Gale only makes it harder to bear. It's her friend's turn to reply and she wonders…well, she doubts he'll pick up on her hint. And when she _doubts_ she means she's trying not to get her hopes up. She just doesn't feel right asking him flat out to meet her. When the time comes, she wants to know that he thought of it and wanted to see her badly enough to ask her first. It's silly, but she'd always feel that he might have met her out of obligation, otherwise.

At half-past six o'clock, Madge clears her desk and trudges wearily toward Level 9. She phoned home while her coworkers were away at lunch to make sure her father took his new medication – with her on the line. That had been the problem in the wee hours of Monday morning – she'd forgotten to double check on Sunday that he'd taken it and he'd forgotten completely…and so the need for a late-night walk led her to sleeping late.

Madge arrives home to find her father in the kitchen, staring forlornly at the oven. She sets her bag down on the table and joins him with a sinking heart.

"Hello, Madge," he greets, still looking at the oven. His lips purse, occasionally puckering out as he considers some great predicament. His arms are folded across his chest, wrinkling the new cotton button down shirt she bought him after the cuff in his old one got a hole in it. It's easily fixable, she imagines, for someone who actually knows how to sew. Madge never entertained the notion that she'd be in a position one day where she'd have to know such things. They'd always had Hanna the housekeeper for that.

"What is it?" she asks worriedly when her father's concentration shows no sign of turning.

"I think it's broken," he replies, scratching the bald patch on the top of his head. "I can't get it to turn on."

Madge bites her lip. "What did you want the oven for?" she asks cautiously.

"I thought I'd start dinner for you, so you wouldn't have to worry about it when you came home." At the look on her face, he adds, "Just a frozen dinner, nothing fancy."

Madge feels her throat tighten as her father's thoughtfulness causes a fresh wave of emotion. "Thanks, Dad."

He shakes his head. "Don't thank me," he says dejectedly. "My plan did not succeed."

Madge's stomach twists, because it's her fault. She's sorrier that her father didn't get to surprise her than she is about not being surprised. She skirts around her father and squeezes into the gap between the oven and the counter, feeling for the electrical cord in the dusty bottom beneath the oven. Once her fingers curl around it, she pulls it out for her dad to see. Then she plugs it into the outlet partially hidden by the oven.

"How did that happen, I wonder?" Mr. Undersee says. "It never occurred to me to check the outlet."

"I know," Madge confesses. "I…unplugged it."

"You unplugged it?" he asks, looking puzzled. "Whatever for?"

"Sorry, Dad," she murmurs, shamefaced. "I had to for your own good."

At first, she guesses he doesn't understand. Then a hurt expression crosses his face, replacing the look of puzzlement. It causes her a vicious stab of guilt.

Mr. Undersee's watery blue eyes don't seem to know where to look. "I see. Well." He claps and unclasps his hands, glancing away from her, toward the kitchen table. When he looks back at Madge, his face is smoothed out and placid. He gives her a smile. "Perhaps you'd like to preheat the oven for me, then?"

Madge silently turns on the oven after consulting the baking instructions on the box in the freezer. She doesn't know what to do with herself next, feeling awkward after revealing how far she's gone to protect her father from himself. In fact, she isn't feeling very hungry at all anymore.

"I picked up something else while I was out getting dinner," says Mr. Undersee pleasantly, seeming to have already forgotten about the unplugged oven, and put aside the affront.

Madge slowly turns around to face him. "What's that?"

Mr. Undersee gives her a wink. "The mail."

Madge takes a step toward her father, perching on the balls of her feet. Her eyes light up as soon as she hears _mail_. "You did? But I didn't ask you to," she says with open surprise.

"Why should you have to, my dear?" he replies, enjoying the way her excitement over the letters transforms her from the tired work-a-day woman back into the young girl he remembers. "You told me you would be home late, so I went myself. I have the time, as you can see."

"Thank you," she says weakly. Despite his words, though, her heart sinks. Mr. Undersee is doing well right now. He's alert and retaining things. But how long will it last? He's lapsed back into his own personal shadows too many times for her to believe that he's back for good. It makes times like these, the good moments, just as painful because she can't let herself believe that they'll last and that she'll have the father she remembers. The one who used to make her feel safe – not the one _she _has to keep safe by resorting to tricks, phone calls, and unplugging the appliances behind his back.

"Anyway," he says, "there's a little something waiting for you in your room."

She takes another step toward her father and stops, even though she's struck with the desire to race to her bedroom. She reaches for his arm. "Listen, Dad, I'm sorry—"

"Nevermind that, Madge." Mr. Undersee pats her hand. "You have a letter from your friend. Go and read it. I'm sure it will help you feel better."

Madge nods and leaves her father standing in the kitchen. She rounds the corner of the living room, and walks the length of it to her door. She pushes it open, flips the switch and blinks in the flash of light. A small, white envelope rests on her nightstand, unopened. Madge kicks off her shoes into the pile by the door, then sits down on her bed with her legs curled up by her side as much as her skirt will allow. Then she tenderly picks up the envelope, noting none of the stains which suggested he had left the Underground. She had worried that he might leave, but the paper looked perfectly clean, except for some ink smudges from the sorting machines at the post office. She uses her fingernails to gingerly tear open the flap. A lock of her hair falls out of her knot and she tucks it behind her ear as she glances over the words written in his strong, blocky handwriting. The lines aren't very even and she wonders if he's in some kind of distress.

_Dear Friend_,

_Hope you're well. Don't worry about the advice. You'll toughen up._

_No, I haven't picked up a copy of _Uncommon Sense_ yet, but I will._

_I think we shold meet. _

Madge's heart stops painfully in her chest, then burst back into life. She can hear it pumping double time against her ribs. Did she read the letter right? She quickly folds the letter in her lap and holds it there in case something inside of it decides to jump out and eat her. She feels terrified and exhilarated at the same time.

Madge's eyes sweep around her room without seeing anything, concentrating on the feel of the paper between her fingers. She's imagined the scenario a thousand times since she received his first letter over a year ago, but the reality that she's going to put a name and a face to her friend makes her short of breath.

Somehow her trembling legs respond and she clambers out of bed, letter firmly gripped in her right hand. She paces the length of her room three times before forcing herself to sit down again on the bed and finish the note. Slowly, she unfolds it and reads the words over again.

_I think we shold meet_.

_And if we do, I'll bring the book along. You'll get to see my expreshuns and I'll get to see yours. _

_How about it? Tell me when and where…or not at all. _

_Best,_

_Your Friend_

Madge read it correctly. She leans, breathless, against the headboard and closes her eyes to savor the moment. This is the letter she'd been waiting for and it's every bit as satisfying as it should be. She can scarcely believe that he's initiating it – she hoped he would. Of course, she did give him that broad hint…but never mind that. It's such a complete turn-around that her whole body feels light with happiness. She studies his handwriting again, noting the unevenness of the lines and wavering letters again, which had never been present in his other notes. Like the hand holding his pencil shook – did writing this make him _nervous_? Madge suddenly warms all over. She laughs as the thought endears him to her even more – he's lofty _and _human. She'll put his mind at ease on that score.

Mr. Undersee taps on her door, then lets himself in. "Well?" His eyebrows lift, his face a picture of polite curiosity.

Madge gives her father a toothy smile. "I have to write him back!" she cries, shunting herself off of the mattress toward her father, giving him a tight hug.

Mr. Undersee blinks down at her without comprehension, wondering what this bright ray of sunshine has done with his daughter. He pats her back. "That would be the polite thing to do."

Madge shakes her head as she steps back, as much to clear it as anything. She's completely giddy and not at all like her normal, staid self.

"That's not – that is – he wants to meet me," she breathes. _"Finally." _

Mr. Undersee frowns thoughtfully even as Madge beams at him. "I see." He likes that the letters make her happy and gives her something to look forward to, but he worries about just how much she depends on them and well…a real person _is_ writing these letters. A perfect stranger. Madge may not realize it, but her father has been dreading the very moment she's been longing for.

"Read it." Madge thrusts the letter at her father.

Mr. Undersee politely accepts the letter and goes to get his glasses from the lamp stand in the living room while Madge trails behind him. He takes a seat in his chair and unfolds the paper. His lips purse as he scans it, making Madge nervous. She chews her bottom lip raw while she twists the loose strand of hair between her fingers. Then she realizes who it reminds her of and drops the strand like a white-hot poker. She plunks down on the coffee table, facing her father and squeezes her hands together. She didn't consider how much she'd want her father's approval until this moment – now it seems imperative and…unlikely? His tufty gray eyebrows almost meet on his wrinkled forehead, not a good sign if she's any judge of her father's moods. When he's finished, he pulls off his glasses and gives her a long look.

"Well?" she demands, wide-eyed and blushing.

"Margaret, I think you had better bring a dictionary along with you, too," he says dryly. "As a present."

Madge's eyelids droop, giving her a haughty air. _"Daddy."_

Mr. Undersee glances back at the letter, then back at Madge. "You've definitely decided to meet him?"

"I have to," Madge says. "I need to know if he's…compatible."

Madge already knows that they're compatible on a metaphysical level. She needs to know if he's as handsome as she imagines. If his voice will make her stomach feel like it's dropping when he says her name or how his eyes look when he's talking about his convictions. They can't go on writing letters forever and she's prepared to fall head over heels in love with him on sight. Having him in her life could turn everything around. Madge could face the security guards with equanimity at three in the morning every night, or learn to face her job, even, if she didn't have to do it alone anymore. That's how much power her friend has over her. She wants to know if it's the same for him. Just thinking about it makes her warm all over.

"He ought to have given you his name then," her father points out. "It's only polite to allow us to run a security check."

Madge's mouth drops at the suggestion. _"Dad!" _she sputters. _"_You _wouldn't_." She can't fathom stooping to something so vulgar. Her friend would never abuse her information that way, surely.

"I _have_," Mr. Undersee tells her firmly. "On the young men in Twelve." He holds up his hand when Madge shows signs of more sputtering. "Just as a precaution. Several of them would have made very promising suitors. Several of them I would have thrown in jail just for speaking to you."

Madge gapes at her father, whom she never took for a paranoid schemer. She can't even blink.

"I'm surprised you're shocked," Mr. Undersee continues with a faint, mischievous smile, as though enjoying his brief moment of sensationalism. "I am your father, after all. As mayor, I had to take special precautions that no unworthy young men tried to take advantage of your position as my daughter."

Madge wrinkles her nose. She never thought much of her position as the mayor's daughter. It always seemed to get in the way her whole life. And now she can see one definite way it had. That her father had created a list somewhere of men she could or couldn't date is one clear example. "You never told me!" she cries.

Mr. Undersee says, "Well, you didn't show any inclination to date at the time, which was just as well." He hands her back the letter. "As for this fellow, I wish you would find out more about him before you go gallivanting through the Underground to meet him. I could call that nice Mr. Treadle from security to go with you, too."

Madge makes a sour face. "Dad, I don't need a body guard to go on a date. I'm not the mayor's daughter anymore. And I think Officer Treadle is heartily sick of both of us."

Mr. Undersee shrugs. "All the same, it would make me feel better. You don't have to be the mayor's daughter to be a beautiful young woman and a temptation to scoundrels." He reaches for her hand, which she reluctantly allows him to take. He gives it a squeeze. "At least ask for his name. You will, won't you?"

"So you can do a background check?" Madge balks. Surely her father's succumbing to melodramatics. Temptation to scoundrels? No, even the scoundrels leave her alone. Besides, Madge is forgetting herself – she has proof that she's in no danger. Although there isn't a name or a face connected to her letters, Madge does already know the man behind each word, each piece of paper and every mud-speckled envelope.

Madge gives her father a triumphant, lofty smile. "You forget that I have his letters as proof of his character. Someone with such ideals and strong beliefs as his couldn't be anything less than honorable." She adds dreamily. "Besides, I want it to be a surprise."

Mr. Undersee sighs unhappily, slumping his shoulders in defeat. "Not too surprising, I hope," he mumbles, glancing up at the ceiling in exasperation. He gives her a studious look, the kind she used to get after he found out she'd been to the woods with Katniss. "Well, I suppose I'm paying for it now. You were surprisingly docile as a teenager. Except that one evening when you _would _run through a blizzard."

Madge winces. "Yes, well, I'm paying for that indiscretion too," she grumbles. _Gale Hawthorne, you ungrateful wretch._ She doesn't want to think about him right now in her moment of elation.

"You won't reconsider?" Mr. Undersee asks resignedly.

His tone fills Madge with disappointment. It's clear that Mr. Undersee can't and won't stop her from meeting her friend, but he has withheld his approval. She tries to keep her hurt feelings from showing and muster up all the dizzying happiness she felt when she first read, _I think we should meet._

"Of course not," she murmurs. "I'm not afraid."

Madge feels an overwhelming desire to tell anyone who will listen to her without judgment. After her disappointment at work and her never-ending responsibility for her father, she feels she deserves it. Her father, she knows, can't be impartial. It's his duty to worry about her. Fine. But Madge wants to have her cake and eat it too. She springs to her feet, shocking her poor father again by her sudden movement.

"I have to tell Katniss and Peeta," she announces.

Mr. Undersee blinks. "Right now? But the lasagna."

Lasagna? Who can think about that at a time like this? She gives her father a hasty kiss on the cheek.

"I'll bring you back some cake!" Madge calls over her shoulder.

"Well…"

But she's already out of the apartment, letter in hand and no shoes on her feet.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N**: I hope those of you who wanted to see actual letters appreciate this chapter, lol. Writing Gale's misspellings was painful and I may need counseling. Now, the accidental typos are another story, I'm fine with them. ;)

Title and quote courtesy of Florence and the Machine and Regina Spektor.


	8. The Friend of My Friends is My Enemy

**A/N**: Slightly proofread. Sorry, there's lots of family doings this weekend. I'll catch typos later.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

**The Friend of My Friends is My Enemy**

* * *

><p>Gale knew about Madge's habit of showing up to work late. He could've hassled her about it before he left the office, but even though she's a pain in the stones, he kept quiet. Besides, the look on her face when he said he didn't look at their timesheets gave him something to laugh about on the way down the corridor, and all the way to the post office on Level 4. He'd still be laughing except for what he finds waiting for him.<p>

Even though he knows he won't get a reply from his friend, he still checks the mailbox. There's a letter waiting for him, but it's no pink envelope. Return address: District 12.

_Gale, _

_Nobody has arrived at the door to tell me that your body's been found, so I'm assuming you're alive. However, your brothers and sister are already dividing up your possessions between themselves. Posy wants your bow and quiver to give to a boy in her class. I'm tempted to allow her to do it just to spite you. _

_As your mother, I hope you aren't dead. It would break my heart. _

_Love, _  
><em>Your mother<em>

_P.S. Write back this moment._

_Ouch_, Gale winces inwardly.

It's bad when Hazelle Hawthorne resorts to sarcasm, and her eldest son knows it better than anyone. He shoves the letter in his pocket and retreats toward the stairwell, trying to remember when he last wrote her. He's more or less made updating his family a non-priority lately. He can't tell them much about his job, he doesn't feel like complaining about Madge and he's sure as hell not going to tell his mother about a girl he hasn't met yet. She seems to feel that it's her duty to act both objective where Katniss is concerned and yet sooth Gale after his "disappointment." If Hazelle heard so much as a hint that he had a potential girlfriend, she'd probably walk all the way back to this sewer and beg the girl to keep him. If his friend _did_ decide to keep him after that, then she'd be crazy. And Gale couldn't date a crazy girl.

Anyway, he wants to practice by telling Katniss first, then meet the girl. If they suit, then he'll let his mother in on the action.

His communicuff bleeps at him somewhere between Level 5 and 6. _Abernathy_, it reads. _Call now. _Gale groans and stomps down the rest of the way to Level 7. Why do the masses need to get in touch with him today?

In the apartment, Gale throws his rumpled jacket on the table, along with the necktie. He toes off his shoes, one landing under the table and the other in the direction of the living room. Gale rubs his eyes, then rubs his hair until it looks sufficiently rebellious. It's a subtle way of letting the business class - or maybe himself - know that they don't own him yet.

He swipes away the growing pile of kabab wrappers on the kitchen counter to unearth the little handheld phone Heavensbee supplied him with. He scrolls through the list of contacts to find H, then presses the call button with his thumb.

The phone rings once.

"Where are you?" a gruff voice demands from the other line.

Gale frowns into the receiver. "At home. Don't like it? Come and get me."

"Well, shut up and listen."

Haymitch likes to start a conversation that way only when one thing has happened.

Gale grinds his teeth. "Great. What's missing now?"

"Half of the information in your report, that's what. We have a meeting with Boggs and the rest of District Defense next week, in case you don't remember. And I got a phone call from District 3 about a handy set of krytons they receive an order for, to be shipped…guess where?"

"The North Pole."

"No. Some little fort near some river," Haymitch barks sarcastically. "You might have heard of it?"

Gale snorts into the receiver. "Yeah. There's lots of forts north of Panem and even more rivers." Gale switches the phone to his other ear as he treads down the hallway. "Last month cartons of canned peaches were stolen from a base camp about thirty miles northeast of Fort Houlihan. Are we sure these are the same people?"

"Smugglers have to eat, too."

Gale wanders into his bedroom while Haymitch yammers on about the meeting with Boggs and how the smuggling of goods distributed through the District Outreach Office is upsetting the stabilization of the districts and the old Capitol. Gale's heard this before. He peels out of the vest and dress shirt while juggling the phone, then his undershirt, throwing them in a basket to be collected by some laundry service Effie signed him up for.

"Did you hear me?" Haymitch barks while Gale tries to unbuckle his belt with one hand.

"Sorry, what?"

"Pay attention, Hawthorne-"

Gale drops the phone on his bed to pull a gray t-shirt over his head and swaps his suit pants for a worn pair of denim trousers. Some coins jangle in his pocket and he reaches in to pull them out, along with a slip of paper. He unfolds it, seeing that it's the post office delivery timetables. Gale swallows hard. He wonders if she got his letter yet and the earliest he can expect a reply. He can already smell the perfume on the envelope…

"Hawthorne!" he barely hears the small phone bellowing Haymitch's voice at him.

Gale picks up the phone. "Yeah, my mind's not on this right now."

"Well, get it here."

_That's rich, _Gale thinks with a scowl. "Why isn't this something we can discuss during the eight hours I'm locked in that closet on Level 1?"

"Sensitive issue." After a second of silence, Haymitch adds, "And you're so busy letting Madge bully you – how's that going by the way?"

Gale snorts. He made it through one day without her raking him with her proverbial claws. Much. He won't count it a victory, though, until she's kissing is feet. Which she isn't and most likely won't _ever_. He's not in the mood to talk about it.

"Talk business, Haymitch, or I'll hang up," Gale threatens.

"Fine. I don't have any leads. That's what we're paying _you_ for," Haymitch points out. "We need to try a different tack to expose the leader and his ring. So make it your business to find him."

"My contacts in the Wigh valley haven't reported any of their employees," Gale says as he treads back through the hallway to the living room. "So, explain to me why we're allowing any of these things to be purchased and distributed. Pull a restriction on it to block the pipeline to the Jabs while we're waiting."

"That's not so easy, not with Paylor. She won't agree to stop supplying the districts and she needs munitions for the same reason a Jab would. Not to mention, how do we find the persons responsible if we make it impossible for them to leave their tracks behind? At this point, finding the bastards is more important than drying up their business."

Gale paces the length of his living room, eating the floor with his long strides while he considers. His fingers try to crimp the hair on the back of his head, a childhood habit that relapsed in the last few months. But it's hard to do when his hair's shorter than it used to be.

"Do you think it's a distributer?" Gale asks, more to shoot the breeze than anything.

"Oh, our distributers are definitely in on it," say Haymitch. "But which is the head and which is the tail?"

"How about venders or manufacturers?"

Haymitch snorts. "Why would they send us phony invoices then?"

"So they can get paid by _someone_. I doubt the Jabberjays can. That'd be a sweet deal. Supply one side and get paid by the other." Gale adds, "I don't see how it could be anyone but a Capitol agent. Nobody in the districts would support Capitol loyalists – they only benefit from the fall of the Capitol."

"But we've already checked out anyone with Capitol connections and they're squeaky clean," Haymitch tells him.

"Well, that only leave district staff then, _if_ you think it's someone on the inside," Gale points out with open disbelief in his voice.

"I don't know, but I have to consider the possibility. Who knows, maybe some fixer's paying them a premium? Maybe someone's not happy about the new regime controlling the distribution of supplies? They want to run things themselves? It's a reasonable surmise. They resent that we're still under military rule. Maybe they feel they'd make more of a profit catering to Jabberjays."

"It's possible, but can you prove it through our profiles?" asks Gale. "How do we find him? Maybe this person, or group, knows we're suspicious after you guys fired Vadas, and they're covering their tracks."

"You're the hunter, you tell me."

Gale considers this. His instincts tell him that it's someone on the inside manipulating the works. He has no idea who or how, but if you can see a target well enough to shoot it, you have to make it move until you can.

"Flush him out," Gale says. "Make him feel secure, then maybe he'll do something obvious."

"How do we do that?"

Gale rolls his eyes, tired of coming up with the ideas. "Figure it out."

Haymitch snorts. "I don't like your tone. Whatever. I have to speak with Plutarch."

"Ah." Gale smiles wryly, remembering yesterday's conversation with Jo in her kitchen. "Have fun on that merry-go-round."

"What?"

"Nevermind."

Haymitch hangs up.

Gale replaces the phone on the kitchen counter, sweeping the wrappers back over it. He liked life better when nobody could get ahold of him unless it was face to face.

Gale takes a second look at the wrappers, though, then at the rest of the apartment. He never got rid of the plastic sheeting over the furniture. He forgets it's there most of the time. Either he's at the office, out wandering around or he's here asleep. But now he's looking at the apartment through different eyes - wondering what _she _might think if she walked in right now.

Gale scoops up the wrappers and throws them in a grocery bag under the sink. Does he have a trash can? He can't remember. He heads into the living room and starts uncovering the couch. Then he pauses.

Maybe he should wait until he hears from her. Gale drops the corner of the plastic. What if she says no?

Okay. If she agrees to meet him, then he'll uncover the furniture. If she says no, he won't care if the plastic is still there, it'll just be like old times. But if it's off – the date and the plastic – the sight of the couch will just remind him that she said no...which would be painful.

Gale scratches his head. Things have gotten complicated if he's contemplating furniture. A tremor runs down his spine, like he's a cornered animal. It's time to get out of the apartment.

…

Gale hesitates at the door. Maybe coming _here_ was foolish. But his feet brought him to this spot, so he stays rooted in front of the Mellark's flat. He pushes the intercom button and hears the buzzer through the door.

"Am I intruding?" he asks when Peeta opens the door with a surprised look on his face.

"Cookie?" Peeta glances over his shoulder. "Gale wants to know if he's intruding."

Gale looks over the top of Peeta's head, having the advantage by about six inches or more, at the table where Katniss is gathering up a pile of freshly fletched arrows. She rolls her eyes at the nickname, Gale presumes.

Peeta turns back to Gale with a lopsided grin. "I guess not. Come inside."

Gale steps over the threshold and lets his sensitive nose adjust to the conflicting odors of wet paint and warm food. "Smells good," he says about the food – not the paint. His stomach grumbles quietly.

"We're just about to have dinner," Peeta continues. "Hope you're hungry. I made a tater tot hot dish."

Gale hides the shudder that casseroles inspire in him. He likes to eat his food in nice, separate piles – not mixed together in an overcooked, squishy concoction that somehow doesn't taste remotely like any of the individual components that went into it. Oh well, at least there's dessert guaranteed. Peeta disappears into the kitchen while Gale drops into a seat at the table next to Katniss.

Gale studies her while she's concentrating on delicately gluing a feather to the shaft. "Thanks for letting me in…Cookie." He barely quells a smirk.

Katniss glances up to give him the stink eye for teasing her. "I'll shoot you if you call me that again."

"I hope so." He rolls his eyes. Endearments are almost as creepy as casserole. How does Mellark get away with it? Not that it matters. Gale's in a good mood. "What do you call him? Dumpling?"

Katniss makes another face at him.

"Catnip wasn't much better," she huffs in Peeta's defense as she carefully replaces her arrows into the sheath.

Gale picks up one of the arrows and studies the perfect balance with the careful gluing of the feathers. She always had a good hand for fletching. Unfortunately, neither of them were any good at constructing bows. That'd be a handy skill.

"Well, that was your fault for mumbling," he teases, handing her the arrow.

"When a big guy like you bears down on a scrawny little girl, what would you expect?" she says with notes of irritation and fondness in her voice. "I was used to the wild dogs by then, but you scared the crap out of me."

Gale laughs at the comparison, feeling grateful for a normal conversation finally. "I was more worried about the rabbit I thought you were going to steal than what you might think of me."

"I know," she says without judgment. He might have had several more hanging from his belt, but he needed every one of them to feed his family and to trade to the items he couldn't scrounge from the woods. Like clothes for his brothers who were starting to sprout up so fast he and his mother couldn't keep them in pants; or soap, or sleep syrup for when the kids were too hungry to fall asleep. He didn't know Katniss then, or he could have gotten the medicine from her mother by trading the rabbit.

Peeta returns with plates and silverware. "How's work holding up?" he asks.

Katniss stills, obviously curious. Gale studies them warily. Two things about his job he can't share. One, the investigation he's trying to pull. Two, his honest opinion of Madge Undersee. They're friends with Madge, which doesn't exactly make them enemies of his, but the last thing he needs are a few words of indiscretion getting back to her ears. Not that Katniss would slip, but Peeta has an extra hinge in his tongue and is liable to let something slip. There's enough fuel for a flame war between them without dragging Katniss and Peeta into it.

"Work's…fine," he settles. Then he adds to be polite, "How's therapy?"

"Therapy's fine," Peeta replies, mirroring Gale's words. He sets silverware beside Katniss's elbow and the side of his wrist brushes her forearm in an unconscious movement. Gale remembers a time when he would do the same thing; touch her without thinking about it when they were in the woods together, back when he first realized his attraction to Katniss. "We're moving on to decoupage and why my mother hated me."

The muscles in Gale's cheek twitch. He wonders how he got suckered into having these kinds of conversations – and conversations specifically with Peeta. Oh yeah, because Katniss decided to marry the guy. Judging by the look on Katniss's face as she quietly watches both of them blunder through small talk, she's probably thinking the same thing.

"That's good…" his voice trails off.

Peeta gives him a polite nod and a plate. "So, what brings you around, then?"

Gale shrugs. "I started to feel caged in at my place," he says, glancing at Katniss who looks slightly sympathetic beneath her scowl. He clears his throat. "Actually, though, there's something I should tell you both."

On cue, Katniss's eyes narrow unhappily. "You're leaving again."

"No." Gale rubs his jaw with his thumb. "Maybe the opposite."

He made up his mind to come clean about the letters, not that there's a very real chance he'll be bringing his girl around in the near future. He's still afraid saying it out loud will jinx the whole affair, but he wants someone to know besides Bristel. He's a good friend, but a little too eager for someone else to share his breeding woes.

"What do you mean?" Katniss asks.

"I'm—"

The door buzzer sounds.

Peeta and Katniss glance at each other. "It's our lucky day," says Peeta with benign amusement. To Gale he says, "Hold that thought."

Since he's setting the table, Katniss throws her sheath down by the couch and goes to answer the door. She opens it halfway to speak to the visitor. At first Gale doesn't recognize the blond apparition, wreathed in smiles. Happiness hangs around her like a halo of light. He finds himself taking a second look.

"Sorry to barge in – I just have to tell you," she says to Katniss, waving a white piece of paper in her hand like a crazy girl. Katniss turns to look at Gale with discomfort written all over her face. That's what tips him to who this glowing young woman is.

Gale has to blink to clear the vision away from his eyes. He'd never seen Madge lit up like that, certainly not directed at him. But now that he sees her correctly, it's almost comical the way it so quickly turns to disgust as soon as she claps eyes on him.

"Oh," he hears her say so low that someone might have tied an anvil to her voice and dropped it. "You already have company."

"Madge, where are your shoes?" Katniss asks instead of figuring out a reply.

Gale's eyes trail down Madge's body, still clad in her work clothes, down to her feet. He wonders if her shoes were confiscated as a public safety hazard.

Madge glances at her feet too, as though only just realizing they're bare. "What? Oh." She stares pointedly at Katniss to avoid seeing Gale. "This is a bad time. I'll call you later."

"It's not a bad time," says Peeta, who ducked back into the kitchen to retrieve the casserole dish. "And your feet must be freezing. Come in side."

Everyone stares in horror at Peeta, especially Katniss, who does not want this war waging in her living room. Peeta takes a step away from the table and smiles pleasantly, as though oblivious to the rising tension.

"I'll just get another plate." He gestures at the dishes on the table. "We have a lot of casserole…and cake! Really. You should come in."

Katniss's look of horror stays fixed on her face, but she opens the door all the way for Madge to enter. She steps stiffly over the threshold and Katniss closes the door and leans against it for support or perhaps for the best vantage point.

"You had news?" Peeta asks, ignoring the daggers in his wife's eyes.

"Oh, um," Madge's eyes flick in Gale's direction for a nanosecond. She shoves the paper in her pocket. "It wasn't important," she fibs.

It's so obvious that Gale rolls his eyes as she stiffly settles into the chair opposite him. He's curious. What would make Madge that happy? He already knows what makes her hopping mad.

Katniss shuffles off to put her arrows away in the hallway closet. She pulls out a pair of Peeta's slippers and offers them to Madge, who accepts them with a faint blush. She mumbles something about _being so silly_.

"How's your dad doing?" Peeta asks when he brings out an extra table setting. He looks content to steer the conversation and force casserole and cake on everyone.

"Oh, about the same," Madge says tiredly. Then her hand flies to her mouth. "I forgot to bring your plates back again."

Peeta shrugs, like they are used to losing plates. They probably are. "Bring him back another piece."

"You're going to make us both fat," she protests.

Gale snorts, causing Madge to give him a sharp look. She not in any danger of that.

"Your dad gets plenty of walking in, thought," Peeta jokes.

Madge sags against her chair a little with a sardonic smile. "True."

Gale steels himself for a long dinner while Peeta and Madge exchange pleasantries and talk about her father. But he won't let himself be cowed by Madge just because she showed up. And he's not going to sit quietly. He drums his fingers on the tabletop, which gets Katniss's attention, but Gale's not watching her. He's studying Madge outside of the office for the second time. He has some follow-up questions from the first covert encounter.

"What's your dad still doing here?" Gale asks. Everyone startles like they forgot he's sitting at the table as well – or maybe they just didn't expect him to openly address Madge at all. "I would've thought he'd go back to Twelve overseeing reconstruction."

Madge squints at him, like she can't tell if he's asking a legitimate question or taunting her. He can tell it takes a great deal of effort not to resort to the pettiness she exhibits at the office when Peeta and Katniss are present. He grudgingly recalls Haymitch's words about getting to the bottom of employee conflict. It's not his style. With his survey crew, he didn't ask too many questions. As long as the job got done, and done correctly, he let them have whatever they needed to get by living in the middle of nowhere with the same dozen people day in and day out. He only interfered with Gusterson, because the drinking had become a problem for their safety and professionalism. Gale tries to think of Madge the way he did Gusterson. Except it's a lot harder to be objective when she's constantly making it personal.

She settles for a simple, "No."

Gale keeps drumming on the tabletop until he feels Katniss's boot nudge his ankle. "What is he doing then?" he asks.

"He stays home and reads." She purses her lips sourly like the admission costs her something.

Gale's brow arches with surprise. "What? While you work?"

Katniss and Peeta glance at each other and start shoveling food onto plates, pretty much deciding to sit back and let the train wreck happen.

"If you can call it real work, yes," she says snidely.

So, Madge supports her father and herself. Some of the puzzle pieces fit together. She wanted a promotion. She's in charge of the finances. For some reason he's under the impression that the Undersees have scads of money piled somewhere. He's a mayor right? Or was. Didn't some benefits carry over from District 12 to the Underground? He could see why not getting a better-paying job might be a hardship for her, given how he now knows how much she earns. He'd be sore too – but then, he's used to being angry about a job that doesn't pay enough. People in the Seam are born angry that way, so they're used to it. Madge, born in relative privilege probably has a sense of entitlement to contend with, which allows Gale to return to his former lack of sympathy.

"Isn't that backward?" he asks. "You supporting your father?"

"I'm not the first woman to support her family," Madge points out his hypocrisy with a less than subtle glance toward Katniss. "And my father isn't as good at sharpening pencils as I am."

"Pencils?" Katniss asks.

"Long story," Gale mutters.

Madge tents her fingers below her chin, eyes sharp and focused on Gale. "But a fascinating one. Or are you afraid public opinion might be swayed against you after the telling?" Her eyebrows raise with a challenge.

Gale leans forward over his plate. "I'm not afraid. I could tell them other stories that would make their heads spin."

"I don't doubt it," she replies smugly.

Peeta clears his throat. "Wine anyone?" He retrieves a bottle and glasses from the buffet counter that he must have set down without Gale or Madge noticing. "I usually prefer something less potent with tater tots, but this is a special occasion."

He's ignored, except by Katniss who accepts a full glass.

"That still doesn't answer why he wouldn't go back to his old job," Gale points out. "As a former citizen, naturally I'm curious."

Madge stares down her nose at him, which is a feat since he's got the advantage of her in height. He doesn't look, but he wouldn't be surprised if she's sitting on her feet or a phone book for just such a purpose.

"Simply because people decided to move back to Twelve doesn't mean he automatically gets his mayorship back," she retorts coldly. "In fact, as a former magistrate of a defeated regime known for its crimes against humanity, he's lucky he isn't in jail. So, consider him retired, if it helps."

Gale snorts air. "In my neck of the woods, 'retired' is another word for dead," he informs her. In the Seam, nobody stops working after 18 unless they're dead or crippled…and in some cases, not even then.

Madge's countenance shifts dramatically from rosy hauteur to white. "Well, he isn't dead and this isn't your neck of the woods."

"Why is he retired?" Gale asks doggedly. She's not speechless but neither is he.

"It's really none of your business," she sniffs disdainfully.

"Uh huh," he says with a nod. He leans back into his chair to assume a casual air. "Just asking."

He takes a bite of the now-tepid casserole while Madge takes a healthy pull from her wine glass. He gives her a chance to swallow.

"What about you or your mother?"

Madge stares down into her glass with the corner of her lip puckered like she's biting the inside of her mouth. "She's retired…in _your_ sense of the word," she tells him reproachfully after a moment.

Oh.

"Gale's family lives back in Twelve," says Peeta, finally deciding to hijack the conversation back to something manageable. "Just like Katniss's. They like it pretty well. We just got a letter from Prim, who says the square's finally cleared out. They found a few more unexploded incendiaries last fall they had to detonate or remove – that slowed work crews down. Many of the shops have been rebuilt. Some of the businesses have reopened. But not," he says with satisfaction, "the bakery." He smiles broadly at Katniss, who looks like an ostrich with no place to hide her head. Her nose is red.

Gale can't figure out why Peeta'd be happy about the bakery not opening. Just seems to rub in the fact that none of his family members survived. "Were you afraid someone would?" he asks.

Peeta shrugs. "Some. I kind of hope someday we'll get to reopen it ourselves," says Peeta, smiling at Katniss across the table. She returns it with an uncertain half-smile. So much of their movements depend on the Mockingjays ability to maintain stability in the districts that they might not have a choice about returning to Twelve.

"What about the sweet shop?" Madge asks solemnly.

"Prim didn't say," Katniss replies.

Madge nods. "It wasn't really very necessary," she allows.

Gale lets out a bark of laughter. "You think? Half the citizens couldn't afford anything there anyway," he says without tact. "Even less of them can now with the main industry destroyed."

Madge glares at him. "My mother's family owned that shop. It's of personal interest to _me,_ whether anyone else cares or not."

Well, she really knows how to drum up useless relatives. Gale's almost impressed. Her dad turned out to be an impotent mayor who sits by in comfort while his former district – and his daughter – toil. Her mother's family made and sold candy nobody wanted. He feels like he understands Madge Undersee pretty well now – or as well as he wants to. Haymitch will have to be satisfied.

With that, Gale tucks into the meal, content to let things Peeta direct the rest of the conversation. He's bothered that he didn't get a chance to mention his letters, but also relieved Madge provided an excuse to keep it to himself a little longer. Maybe he's more nervous than he thought. Anyway, at least he got his research on Madge taken care of, so now he can ignore her the rest of the time they're stuck at the table together.

Unfortunately, Peeta has other plans.

"Remember when you both helped Katniss and I right before the Quarter Quell?" Peeta says pensively while he helps everyone to more food. "Gale, you taught us snares and, Madge, you helped us comb for information about our competitors."

Madge and Gale exchange a startled glance, then hastily look away, but not before Gale notices the blush on her cheeks.

"Well, I _do_ remember," Peeta continues. "So does Katniss. Right?" He waits for her to nod.

Gale remembers all right, but Madge didn't figure into his involvement. He could only spare them his time on Sundays. Either way, he was too torn up worrying about Katniss at the time to take much notice of Madge. Still. It's funny to think that there was a time before the Outreach Office when they semi-worked together. Leave it to Mellark to try and find some common ground.

"The point I'm trying to make," he says. "Is that you two are our best friends and have been for a long time. I guess there's a lot about both of you that we appreciate and that you could appreciate about each other."

Gale resists the urge to roll his eyes. Peeta means well, but the pep talk raises some rebellious urges in him. From the look on Madge's face, she's struggling with her own rebellion.

What's startling is when Katniss decides to butt in. She sighs deeply and pushes her plate away from her. She glances at Peeta, who gives her a reassuring nod, like he can read her mind to know what she's thinking. Her lips thin with determination, then she turns to her right.

"Look, Madge," she says with quiet forthrightness, "it's not Gale's fault Plutarch gave him the job. Taking it out on Gale isn't fair. And as for _you_," she says to Gale without the same note of sensitivity, "This bickering could have ended a while ago if you didn't enjoy provoking her so much."

"I don't enjoy it," Gale grouses.

Katniss looks right into his hard eyes and won't back down."Yes, you do – and you always have."

"What are you talking about?"

"Like the time you picked a fight with her about tesserrae after commenting about her dress." When Gale shows no sign of recollection, she adds, "I remember that because it's the day Peeta and I were reaped." Then she turns to Madge again. "As for you, one time you brought Gale morphling through a blizzard. You have a good heart and hiding it behind meanness isn't like you at all. And frankly I'm worried about what's happening to both of you – and I don't want to feel like crawling out of my own apartment because the two of you intersected paths. And, Peeta, dinnertime is not the appropriate setting for facilitating a showdown."

Katniss lets out a deep breath then slumps back in her chair, feeling that her job is done, and chagrined that all three of them conspired to make her say more in one two minutes than she has all day. Peeta gives her a proud smile and a glass of water to counteract the wine.

"Sorry, Cookie," he says with a shrug. "It seemed like the opportune moment."

Madge sits up straighter in her chair, blinking rapidly, as if Katniss's words woke her up from a dream. "I'm sorry, too," she murmurs to Katniss and Peeta. "I didn't mean to spoil your dinner…or yours," she adds barely casting a glance at Gale.

That has to be the first apologetic thing she's ever said to Gale. He's not sure what to do with it. In fact, he suspects a trap.

He settles for a classic, "Forget it," figuring she'll accept if she meant the apology or bite his head off if she didn't.

Katniss rolls her eyes and kicks him beneath the table. He barely stifles a yelp. Peeta and Madge give him strange looks and Katniss uses the distraction to tip her chin suggestively at Madge. Oh.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Peeta smiles contentedly as he stands up from the table. "You know, it's funny that Katniss and I didn't know either of you were coming over, because I made shortcake with the first of the June strawberries."

Gale blinks. Is the conversation over?

Madge's blush deepens further and Gale scowls as Peeta lifts the cover off of the cake plate sitting on the counter. It _is_ strawberry shortcake. The not-so-subtle reference to their past black market dealings with the Undersees is not appreciated by Gale, and if he's reading Madge right, not by her either. If Gale didn't know any better, he'd say the Marshmallow contrived this whole setup. He doesn't know what Peeta's up to, or what he knows about Madge or himself, but now he's starting to feel cramped again.

Gale wipes his face one last time with his napkin and stands up. "Thanks for dinner, Peeta, Katniss. I'm calling it a night."

"But you haven't had cake," says Peeta, slicing through the first spongy layer. "And this one's special."

Peeta thinks all of his cakes are special. They're like children to him. It's mildly disturbing, when one considers that he eats them, but the metaphor holds.

"Some other time."

"Humor him," Katniss quietly commands. "It's the least you can do." After making dinner unpleasant, she adds through the expression on her face.

Gale takes his seat again and allows Peeta to force dessert on him. Strawberries. He pops a slice in his mouth and swallows without tasting it. Now he's going to associate them with Madge again, even though she's nothing _like_ them. Well, maybe the unripe ones. Sour.

"Finnick says strawberries are an aphrodisiac," Peeta continues conversationally. "But then, he tends to say that about whatever food he's eating."

"Do you hear from the Odairs often?" Madge asks politely. She fiddles with her fork, looking like her appetite deserted her.

"They sent me a birthday card last month," Katniss mumbles. "It was a pop-up."

"Pop-up?" says Gale, remembering the Friday in March when Johanna showed up in his cabin. "Like the one you sent me?"

Peeta grins. "That's where I got the idea. Well, the one they sent for our anniversary. Did you like it? You never write back, so we didn't know."

Katniss gives Gale a quelling look that suggests she'll gut him if he hurts Peeta's feelings.

Gale clears his throat. "It, uh, yes," he replies in a pinch. "For a card, I'd say..yes."

Gale shovels cake into his mouth and glances at Madge. Katniss and Peeta's combined shpeal had a subduing effect on her and she seems very tuned into her cake. He takes her cue and finishes after a few mouthfuls, then pushes his plate away from him.

Peeta snaps his fingers. "I forgot. Did you ever say what you came to tell us?" he asks, causing Gale to nearly choke.

Madge glances up curiously from her plate.

"Nevermind. It's not important," Gale fabricates. When Peeta shows signs of not dropping the subject, he scoots his chair back and gets up again. "Thanks. I'll let myself out."

He gives Madge a sardonic nod and beats it out of the flat before Katniss or Peeta object or press him to divulge his secret. It's only when he's alone in the lift that he realizes Madge never told them what she came for either.

…

Madge releases the breath she keeps holding off and on during the night. With Gale gone, she can relax.

"I should probably call next time I come," she murmurs when it's likely Gale won't pop back in. She glances contritely at Katniss. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to subject you two to that."

"Well, I probably should have let you go earlier," Peeta admits. "Like Katniss said, dinner's not really the proper place for a minor explosion."

Madge's hands form a knot in her lap, as she feels thoroughly ashamed of herself. "But, you're right. Both of you. I haven't been acting like myself," she says. "But it's not just Gale. These last few years have been harder on me than I thought. Sometimes I don't recognize myself."

Peeta nods solemnly. "We know how that goes. Better than anyone." He slides another piece of cake at Madge. She picks at the sliced strawberries with her fork, dabbing them generously with cream. "But you seemed really happy earlier. Something good must have happened."

"You're going to think I'm crazy," she says, finally loosening up after they've plied her with sugar.

"No, we won't," says Katniss with a flat tone meant to be reassuring.

"I came to tell you that," Madge sips her wine, "I'm going on a blind date with the man I've been writing to."

"Are you nuts?" Katniss sputters, dropping her dessert fork on her plate.

Madge blushes and laughs into her wine. "I told you."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	9. The Pub Around the Corner

**Chapter 9**

**The Pub Around the Corner**

* * *

><p>Around lunchtime Gale decides to duck out of the office to grab something to eat. He wants to make sure there isn't a letter from his friend saying she's backing out. After all, she had a whole twenty-four hours since he received her positive reply to change her mind. Considering his past dealings with changeable Katniss and run-away Jo, it wouldn't surprise him.<p>

Fortunately, there's no such letter waiting for him, so he grabs something to eat and scarfs it down on the way up the stairs to Level 1. He nods at the construction workers in their greasy coveralls who call down greetings as he passes by the scaffolding. They've become a fixture in the corridor and lately he's felt tempted to join them up on the platforms beneath the sagging ductwork to get out of the tight space of the office.

Gale punches in the security code into the keypad next to the door and treads inside. Everyone's still seated at their desks. He studies Ilona, Junius, Terry and Madge out of the corner of his eye as he passes by. Madge looks especially engrossed in whatever project she's working on. She's avoided him completely since they met at Katniss's two nights ago. Gale's oddly disappointed. Maybe Katniss got it right for once, about him enjoying pressing Madge's buttons. Not because he likes all her prattling so much, but he didn't figure her for a pushover.

Gale stops by the coffee counter to fill a plastic cup with water, thinking that listening to Katniss doesn't make anyone a pushover. She's economical with her words, so when she talks, people listen. He gulps the water down, then shoves it back under the tap for a second, considering this.

The phone on Ilona's desk rings.

"Hello. District Outreach. How— Yes, I'll see if Mr. Abernathy is available. Please hold."

Gale puts the cup down to watch Ilona approach Haymitch's office. She knocks on the door and cracks it open. "Phone call for you, sir," she says cheerily.

"Who is it?" Haymitch barks, causing a half-grin to appear on Gale's face. These weekly calls provide him with some of the only amusement available down in the Underground. Not only are they free entertainment, but he gets paid to be here when they happen.

"Ms. Trinket."

A desk drawer slams. Then, "Tell her I fled the country."

Ilona nods, then trots back to her desk. She picks up the receiver. "Mr. Abernathy wishes you to know that he has fled the country. Yes. You're welcome." She transfers the call to his office.

A string of curses spills out from underneath the closed door of Haymitch's office. Then the ringing and the cursing stop. Gale laughs to himself. It's good for Haymitch to have someone pestering him. Gale's half-tempted to go in there and remind Haymitch that he should get to the bottom of Effie Trinket, his would-be girlfriend and life coach, just to throw his own words back at him.

Instead, Gale drinks the rest of his water, then he decides he needs something stronger. He reaches for the coffee carafe but ends up getting his fingers tangles with someone else's.

Madge snatches her hand back like he burnt her. Somehow she managed to sidle up next to him without his noticing while he eavesdropped on Haymitch. He's surprised she'd come anywhere near the counter while he still occupied the sink area.

"Sorry," he mutters, then gestures for her to proceed.

Madge swallows, but doesn't argue. She pours about two ounces of black sludge into her cup when it runs out. Her nose wrinkles at the sight of it.

"Thanks for saving some for me," Gale quips. He'd rather drink water from Haymitch's old boots than the sludge at the bottom of coffee brewed by Ilona.

Madge reaches around Gale, brushing against his side while she dumps out the coffee from her mug into the sink. He's surprised by the contact.

"Don't be sarcastic," she retorts. "Hand me the coffee canister."

He obligingly opens the supply cabinet overhead, willing to cooperate if it means she'll make the next pot. She throws away the old filter and replaces it, scooping up heaping spoonfuls of grounds. She must like it strong. He watches her steadily, feigning an interest in the intricacies of coffee brewing. Madge shoves the carafe against his stomach with enough force to make him exhale sharply.

"Clean this out, then fill it up, since you're glued to the sink." Madge still won't look at him, but she's plenty aware of him, Gale realizes smugly. _Although, maybe he needs to pay more attention to her_, he muses, stealthily rubbing his bruised gut where she got him with the carafe.

Gale hands back the clean, refilled carafe to her. He leans against the counter, eyes still on her expressionless face. Her skin looks less tired than it has lately. Her hair's still twisted up in that same knot. Only she's added some curly something or other that keeps getting stirred around by the cold air coming from the overhead duct. The style makes her look a little different, but reminds him of someone else, the way the little wisps curl around her ears.

Madge finally cracks when she doesn't have anything left to do with the coffee pot but waiting for it to finish brewing. "What are you gaping at?" she finally asks.

Gale cocks his head back. He doesn't gape. "Nothing," he replies. "I just realized what your hair reminds me of."

Madge crosses her arms, creasing the crisp white blouse she's wearing. Not the one with the button count problem, he notes. "I don't want to know the poor girl's name," she mutters, like he keeps a whole string of them on call all the time.

Gale snorts, wondering what kind of opinion she has of him. "Not a girl. Try a teacher. Miss Ratchet."

Madge's eyes snap all the way open. She turns to Gale with pink cheeks and a tart look in her eyes. "The spinster who taught the fifth grade?" she hisses.

Gale shrugs. "You said spinster, not me." Truth be told, he had fond memories of Miss Ratchet when he was in fifth grade, since she was still a youngish teacher and none of the girls he knew _looked_ like girls yet. She might have been Gale's first crush, but he can't remember clearly.

Madge makes a scoffing sound and hastily starts opening sugar packets and dumping them into her mug ahead of time just to occupy her hands. "You do enjoy insulting me, just like Katniss said," she grumbles. "Dinner with the Mellarks two nights ago didn't mean anything to you, did it?"

"Sure," he says casually. "I learned that wine and tater tots don't mix."

"You are such a bastard," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "Unbelievable."

Gale grins because he knows it will bate her. "So much for that apology."

Madge shoots him a glare. "I apologized for ruining your dinner," she huffs. "That's all."

Katniss must not have as much of an effect on people as one might think, then. That's fine by Gale as far as Madge is concerned. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if she were actually amicable. He doesn't need the complication right now.

…

Madge leaves the counter in a flurry, plopping down into her desk chair, leaving the entire pot of coffee to Gale. She pretends she isn't watching him until he returns to his office. When the door closes, she bites her lip and struggles to ignore his stupid remarks. After all, today is the happiest day of her life and Gale shouldn't be allowed to ruin it. Her fingers reach for the knot on the back of her head. But what if Gale's right and her friend thinks she has old lady hair?

Finally, she leans forward to whisper to Ilona. "You don't think putting my hair up like this makes me look matronly, do you?"

Ilona studies Madge's hair, then shakes her head. "It looks lovely. Why?"

"Gale said I looked like a spinster," Madge replies with a sharp edge to her voice. "But I'm going to wear it this way tonight. I have a dinner date."

"With the man in your letters?" Ilona's eyes brighten. She gets up from her desk, ignoring the inquiring gazes of Junius and Terry, to hear more about it.

"Yes," Made whispers when Ilona makes space for herself on the edge of the desk.

"_Finally_. You've been putting it off for so long," says the secretary.

Madge studies her fingers self-consciously. "Well, every time I thought about it in the past, I guess I got nervous. What if he doesn't like me?" She's avoided mentioning that out loud, but Ilona always has something nice to say. It doesn't replace having a mother, but the older woman is the closest thing Madge has to one anymore.

"Of course he'll like you. He'd be crazy not to," Ilona insists, patting her shoulder. "How will he know that it's you, though?"

Madge leans in to whisper. "He's going to wear a buttercup in his lapel," she says, gesturing to her own collar, "and I'll have one in my copy _Uncommon Sense_ by Obsequious Rex."

Ilona blinks again. "Oh, I don't think I've ever heard of that one," she says with polite interest. From the looks of it, she's already forgotten the title. "Where will you meet him?"

"The Broken Oar," Madge admits. They share a laugh. "It's not my first choice for a restaurant. But at least we know ahead of time that there won't be a single flower in that dingy pub besides ours – and I know because I worked there for several years."

"Aren't you nervous, though?" Ilona asks, with obvious curiosity and a hint of admiration in her hazel eyes.

Madge's face pinches. "I don't dare think about it," she murmurs.

Ilona gives her a warm smile as she stands up again and smoothes out her skirt. "Well, good for you, kid. And good luck!"

Madge thanks her, feeling her excitement rise. Ilona thinks her letters and her date are something out of a romance novel, unlike Madge's father who will be glued to the telephone all night until she's safely inside of their apartment in one piece. Madge didn't let him do a background check, insisting that they had no time for it. She tries not to let his paranoia get to her, but they live in such confined quarters that it's difficult not to catch it. Instead, Madge tries to leach more of Ilona's romanticism and hope for the best.

…

Gale locks the low-security door to his office twenty minutes to five o'clock, giving himself permission to get a head start on changing for his date and calm his nerves. He can't decide if he should show up early and get a drink in him or show up late so he can get a good look at her first. He's hoping the decision will drop on him unexpectedly while he's taking the stairs.

He barely slips his keys into his pocket when Haymitch starts bellowing his name. All the employees in the office freeze and stare at Haymitch's door. He keeps it up, even deigning to leave his hole when Gale doesn't respond. Gale finishes shoving his keys in his pocket then turns his attention to Haymitch.

"What?" he snaps testily.

Haymitch waves a heavy document in Gale's face. "This report is a sham. The damn thing has more holes in it than swiss cheese. You'll stay tonight to do it over. Keep Madge here if you need her to get those meeting notes fixed. I want everything properly documented."

"What!" Madge cries, shooting up from her chair. Her face washes out until it's completely white. It surprises Gale. He figured she'd enjoy some extra homework to boost her professional self-esteem or whatever her crisis is about.

Ignoring Madge, Haymitch shoves the document against Gale's chest, who barely catches it. He stares at it blankly, then back at Haymitch's retreating bulk. Madge gives him a helpless look and that galvanizes Gale into action. He's not getting stuck here with Madge when he's supposed to meet another one.

"What are you playing at, Haymitch?" Gale follows hot on the man's heels into the opposite office. "I can't do it tonight. Tomorrow? Any other night, but tonight."

"It has to happen tonight," Haymitch replies indifferently as he circles his desk.

"Why tonight?" he demands, leaning over the desk as Haymitch lowers himself into it. "What are you trying to pull? If this has anything to do with what I said on Tuesday –"

Haymitch gives him a self-satisfied smirk. "Me? Trying to pull something? Rubbish. You write shite reports. We're all about quality in this agency."

_Quality – in a pig's eye!_ Gale's knuckles turn white where they press into the wood. He clenches his teeth against the temptation to bawl Haymitch out or dump all his liquor reserves down the sink.

"Haymitch!" Madge gasps, bursting into the office. "I just can't stay tonight—"

Haymitch collapses against the back of his armchair and glares through beady, bloodshot eyes. "Am I under some false impression that both of you are employed here?" he asks, his gruff voice loud enough for the others outside of the office to hear. "Who is it that writes your paycheck every other week?"

Gale glares rebellion at him. He can hear Madge's knuckles pop as she squeezes her hands together.

"Well?" Haymitch bellows, watching both of them. "Do you work for me or not?"

"Yes," they both reply, like scolded school children.

Gale stands back from the desk, still scowling, but with an added note of petulance. _Hell's teeth._ He can't believe Haymitch picked tonight of all nights.

"I need the correct report by tomorrow morning or Plutarch Heavensbee will be serving us all on spikes at his next dinner party," says Haymitch. "You two knuckleheads forget that there's a meeting with the District Defense Committee next week?"

"You know we haven't," Gale snipes. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't stand for this level of condescension. Coming from Haymitch, it's completely intolerable.

Haymitch wags a meaty finger at Gale. "Well, if you don't like it, maybe you should have thought about putting more effort into this report before you handed it in," he scolds. "Now get out of my office and get cracking."

Madge and Gale glance at one another, united for once against Haymitch. Her eyes dart between the two men as if she's weighing which one presents the greatest risk. Then she spins on her heels, making for the door. They retreat from the office, Gale gets a few steps ahead. He pulls his keys back out of his pocket and starts fiddling with the lock. Madge follows Gale into his own office, grabbing his arm to stop him.

"Wait." She bites her lip. "Can I speak with you?"

Gale looks down his nose at her. "I guess."

Madge closes the door and gingerly steps around a stack of folders. "How long do you think this project will take?" she asks.

Gale eyes the multipage report with distaste. "Couple of hours at least."

Madge squeezes her eyes shut and shudders. She takes a deep breath and opens them again. They're angry-looking, but that might be the red that starting to ring them.

"I can't believe Haymitch waited until _now_ to spring this on us," she grumbles. "He had all day!"

Gale leans against his desk and crosses his arm. "Yeah."

Madge sighs and doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands. "Look, while we're alone I might as well apologize for snapping at you earlier." She turns the full force of her round, cornflower eyes on him. A hint of moisture makes them shine under the fluorescence. "The truth is that this whole job thing was a real blow to my pride and I've behaved badly. Katniss and Peeta were right…. I suppose curbing my temper will take some practice." She gives him a shy smile.

Gale rubs his jaw, baffled by the turnaround in Madge's attitude, especially after they both received the news that they had to stay tonight. "Well, that's decent of you," he replies warily. "Glad to see you're coming around."

Madge sniffles behind her hand. "You're really quite good at…what you do. And if Mr. Heavensbee thought you were a better match for the position than me, then he must have been right."

The hair on the back of Gale's neck prickles as it stands on end. Is she crying? Naw, maybe it's just a cold. He eyes the door, wondering how to get himself out of this particular snare. Madge takes a step toward him and wipes under her eye. Gale tries to inch back on the desk. Consoling hysterical females didn't show up on his job description. For good reason.

"I-I wouldn't say that," says Gale stiffly. He cringes.

Madge's face seems to buckle. Was that not the right thing to say?

"But it's true," she insists, definitely sounding watery. "You could probably handle this whole office without me or Haymitch."

He cocks his head to the side, wondering if peering at her through a different angle with help him understand what's going through her crazy, weepy head. Now she's just a few short inches away and he can smell her perfume. It reminds him of something he should be remembering, but he can't because he's cornered, panicked and distracted.

She glances up at him through her wet eyelashes while he squirms. "Besides, I might not be working here for much longer."

Gale's head snaps back at that. "You won't?"

Madge shrugs helplessly. "I only say _maybe_." She bites her lip, then says. "Confidentially, my future might change drastically…if…." She shakes her head and swallows. The waterworks in her eyes start up again and she blinks rapidly, turning half away from him.

"If what?" Gale asks warily. This news surprises him, since Madge seemed so set on having his job. What would make her walk away?

She turns back, looking up at him like he's her guardian angel and she's in bad need of some guarding. Gale doesn't know what's up but he feels like he'd better put an arm around her and tell her it'll be all right. No – what he needs to do is grow a pair and deal with the situation. This isn't some heart to heart; they're colleagues who don't even like each other.

"If…well…it all depends on _tonight_," she stammers with a desperate, tremulous voice. "You don't even need me to help you with the report. I wouldn't know anything you don't."

The spell casting a mist over his eyes evaporates in the light of revelation. "Uh oh," Gale mutters as a lightbulb flashes in his mind. Suddenly Madge looks less like a damsel and every bit like the little imp that she is. She's playing him with her feminine wiles, and like a sucker he almost fell for the waterworks.

"Gale, I simply can't stay tonight," she agonizes. Her little hand grips his forearm, still crossed over his chest. "My whole _life _depends on it. Maybe if Haymitch knew that you didn't need me, then he wouldn't insist—"

What could she possibly have going on tonight of all nights that's so important? Does she honestly think that she deserves the night off at his expense? No. If he's going down, then she's going down with him. Then they can both have ruined futures together. That will teach them!

Madge studies his face through those artful eyes of hers, waiting for him to say something. She's still clinging to him.

Gale's face screws up into a sneer. "You little brat. What are you trying to do, lie so you could soften me up? Forget it. You heard Haymitch," he grouses, yanking his arm back, though not before noting the warmth from her fingers soaking into his shirt. He makes a pretense of straightening his shirtsleeve to see if it was real or imagined, then mentally kicks himself. He's not a fifteen-year-old goober anymore, a fact his body conveniently forgot. "There's no way we can get out of it – and if you think I'm sticking my neck out to ask for _you_ to have the evening off, forget it."

Madge instantly hides behind her frosty mantle again, eyes dry and venomous. Her face closes off, like he's the one who tried making a pass at her instead of the other way around. He can't tell what's going on inside that brain of hers, but he's sure she's calculating her losses. He's doing the same thing.

She lifts her head proudly, all reproach and wounded dignity. "I tried appealing to your better nature, but I can see that you haven't got one." Then she sweeps out of his office like a queen in high dudgeon.

Damn manipulative females. Damn Haymitch. Gale ruffles both hands through his hair, pacing the tiny space in frustration. What will his friend thing of him for ditching her? It's too late to explain in a letter. They don't know each other's names so he can't look her number up in the directory. It's worse than a blunder – he's screwed up royally.

Gale mutters a string of curses, then collapses in his chair to lick his wounds.

…

A little before five o'clock, Gale stops in the middle of the main office where Terry, Ilona and Junius wait to find out if there are any sudden expectations for them. Gale looks at the document and Haymitch's notes scrawled all over it. Madge slumps down into her desk, her face a blank mask.

Gale groans inwardly, calculating how much work they'll have to put in. This report will take hours to fix, assuming they can even locate the correct documents.

"All right, folks, listen up. Terry, you can go on home." Terry brightens visibly, and grabs his jacket. "Ilona, I need you to print off the spreadsheets for last month's expenses and the files from Three."

"Yes, Mr. Hawthorne," she replies like a good soldier.

Gale licks his finger and pages through the report to more of the scribbled notes. "And Junius, you need to hand over any invoices or purchase orders you're sitting on."

Junius stands up, flashing Gale with his Technicolor yellow necktie and silver suit. "Of course, I shall attend to them directly. You can count on me, Mr. Hawthorne."

"Wonderful," Gale mutters.

"I can stay this evening, as well, if you'd like my input?" Trivet offers, coming to stand around the desk. He smiles at Madge, though he's still talking to Gale. "I'm entirely at your service."

"Junius," Gale says, barely containing his irritation, "just get me those invoices." He doesn't need Goldilocks tramping around at _anyone's _service, but especially not his.

"As you wish. I aim to—"

Gale points to Trivet's desk. "Go."

Junius beats it.

Ilona slips up to Gale with several files. "Here are the spreadsheets."

Gale gives her a warm smile. "Thank you, Ilona. You can go home now."

"Thank you," she says. Then Ilona slips a sympathetic smile in Madge's direction as she walks past to collect her coat and purse. "Sorry, honey," she mouths.

Madge tries to fudge a smile. "Goodnight, Ilona."

When Gale's back is turned, Junius sidles up to Madge's desk, placing the paperwork in front of her, rather than handing it to Gale. "It's a shame you have to stay this evening," he sighs.

"I'll bear it," Madge replies stiffly through a choke. Junius always gave her strange vibes. He seemed too gilded for her taste.

"It's a pity," he says, repeating past sentiments. "You see, I hoped you'd have a drink with me tonight."

Gale's eyebrows quirk up at the sudden development. He turns around to watch Junius and Madge while he pretends to read Ilona's spreadsheets. While Gale knows that Junius has had his eyes on Madge for a while, he's surprised the turn of events.

Madge glances up with her lips parted, obviously taken by surprise, as well. She scoots back in her chair, squirming. "Oh…Junius. I can't. I…I'm seeing someone, actually," she says awkwardly.

That's news to Gale. He wonders why it didn't occur to him before that Madge might be seeing someone. Why not? She acts like a brat, but she's not half bad-looking.

"Perhaps some other time," says Junius, eyes flicking toward Gale, then back to Madge.

Gale snorts silently. _Don't look at me_, he thinks.

"It's serious. Very," she gently insists. "I'm sorry."

"Ah." Junius's face pinches with something like bitter disappointment. He puts on his brave face and puffs out his chest –again, like a rooster. "Well, I congratulate you, of course."

Madge murmurs, "Goodnight, Junius."

Trivet puts his hat on and leaves the office with one last flourish and goodbye.

"I thought he'd never leave," Gale mutters while he shuffles aimlessly through the spreadsheets Ilona gave him. "Hey, Brat."

Madge crosses his arms, turning toward Gale. "Are you addressing me?"

"Lock the door. I don't want him coming back to propose," Gale grumbles. He throws the pile of papers on top of Terry's desk.

"You were eavesdropping," she accuses.

"It's a small office, Undersee."

Madge square her shoulders, ready to square off again. "Well, for your information, Mr. Trivet won't be returning," she says with wounded dignity. "I really do have a boyfriend." On paper, anyway. She knows she's jumping the gun a little, since she hasn't met her friend face to face. "And Junius isn't the sort of man who'd ignore a woman's request when she declines his advances."

Gale slumps into Terry's chair, already bored to distraction. "Huh."

"I suppose you think that's impossible," she says airily, covering up how his dismissive attitude makes her seethe. "That I have a date. That I'm not just lying to Junius to be left alone."

"I don't think about it much one way or the other," he drawls, rolling a pencil around on the desktop. He's given the satisfaction of seeing her blush. Anyway, Katniss or Peeta would have mentioned it if she had. He throws the pencil back in its holder and picks up the files, tapping the pile against the desktop to even them out. "We'd better get started on this report. I'm not sure what Haymitch expects us to do to improve it. I gave him all the information I had." Gale loosens his necktie as he spreads out the files in front of him.

"We're still on the clock," Madge points out disapprovingly, pointing to his loose necktie.

"So why are your toe pinchers off?" he asks, pointing to her flopped over heels.

Madge curls her bare feet underneath her chair to hide them. "It's a matter of being crippled."

"Yeah? Well, this is a matter of prolonged strangulation."

"What a good idea," Madge chirps brightly, unafraid to poke the surly bear. "Cinch the knot a little tighter and put yourself out of your misery."

Gale glares at her. "Look, I don't want to be here either," he grouses, checking his watch again. "Let's just try to be civil."

"After your accusation this afternoon I don't see why I should—"

They're both startled by the phone ringing on Ilona's desk. Gale picks up the extension on Terry's phone. "Hello? Oh. No, this is Gale Hawthorne. Uh huh. Yes, Madge is right here. One moment." He presses the transfer key and her extension. The phone on her desk begins to ring. "It's your father," he tells her.

Madge blinks in surprise and quickly picks up the line. "He hardly ever calls me at the office," she says to no one in particular.

The shift in her demeanor surprises Gale, going from hostile to strangely vulnerable in the space of seconds. Ever since that night he saw them together on Level 4, he's wondered about the Undersee family dynamic, with Madge working and Mr. Undersee sitting around at home. What's wrong with a grown man that he can't work to support his daughter? And Madge might think that she's cunning, but he's noticed how often she shows up late for work, looking like she hasn't slept at all. The only reason he's never said anything is because she makes up for lost time by cutting into her lunch breaks or staying late like she did on Tuesday. He quietly eavesdrops on Madge's conversation with her father while he sorts through invoices, more curious than he has a right to be about her father.

"Hello?... No, I have to stay late tonight. What's the matter, Dad?" She listens for a bit, her face growing steadily more worried. She turns as much as she can, to avoid Gale, but he can still see some of her profile. "Oh, no, you switched them. It's two blue pills and one white pill. You aren't supposed to take them together. No Dad, the pink pills," her voice drops, as she glances over her shoulder. Gale quickly looks away, but his ears perk up with the next sentence. "The pink ones are for me. You weren't wearing your glasses, were you? Well, how sick do you feel? Okay. You need to call the infirmary right away...no?" Madge's hand passes over her forehead, screaming frustration. "Okay...I'll call them. I don't know, drink some milk? I'll call you back. Love you. Bye."

She sets the phone down on its cradle and turns to sit on the edge of her desk, giving him a full view of her face. He can see the slight pucker where she's biting the inside of her lip to keep her composure. She pinches her nose while she digs in her desk drawer for the directory. The thin pages make a sharp, raspberry sound as she flips through to whatever number she's looking for.

"Everything okay?" he asks despite himself. Then he cringes, waiting for an angry outburst.

But Madge shakes her head wearily, her conversation with her father draining the fight out of her. "My dad is easily confused these days. I need to call the nurse's station to make sure he hasn't poisoned himself. It's probably just heartburn."

A beautiful idea occurs to Gale just then. Using her father as a pretext, he could let her leave and promise to finish the report himself. He hadn't thought of it before because she had tried to use him to get out of staying, which he resented. But as soon as she's gone, he can take off, can't he? That way he can leave in time for his date without anyone being the wiser. He'll just plan to finish writing the report by staying up all night. He figures he'll be so elated after meeting his girlfriend, that he won't be able to sleep anyway.

Gale tents his fingers below his nose to cover the way his lips curl. "Madge, why don't you go home and look after your dad?" he suggests. "I can handle this."

She blinks at the unexpected offer, losing her page as the phonebook slips shut. Then an eager gleam lights up her eyes. She glances at the clock, then back at him. "Are you sure you can manage?"

"If you doubt my ability to put a report together, you can always stay," he says.

Madge backpedals. "I'm sure you'll handle it beautifully," she says, beaming. "That's really decent of you, Gale," she adds, pulling on her heels. "Thanks."

He shrugs with an air of benevolence. "I hope everything's all right with your old man."

Madge bites her lip, losing some of that gleam. "Me, too."

She grabs her bag from her desk and without looking back, she's out the door. Gale waits for a quarter of an hour after Madge leaves, deciding not to go home to change. He organizes the paperwork on District 3 to his satisfaction, throws it in an empty cardboard box to carry home and then he locks up the office. He takes the corridors at a run.

…

Gale makes it to the Broken Oar a little before 6:30 p.m., shoving a buttercup he just bought from the florist into a buttonhole of his jacket. He left his book in his apartment, and since Haymitch made him stay late he couldn't retrieve it. Well, the flower should be enough. He feels like a sucker wearing it though. If it makes her happy, then he guesses he's going to have to deal with being a sucker.

He forced himself to take slower steps halfway there or he'd break a sweat. And while that has a certain appeal, he doesn't want that to be this woman's first impression of him.

In fact, he's at a loss to figure out what impression he _does _want to make. A positive one, certainly, but what's his angle? He sort of talked himself up in his letters. Sure, he wants her to think he has brains, the kind of guy that can run an agency. But then what if she didn't like the part of him that wants to bum around in the forest all the time? He wonders if she's from one of the districts or if she lived in the Underground her whole life. If so, would the idea of living above ground bother her?

Too many questions. Gale feels himself loosing nerve and shuts down those thoughts all together. He's almost to the antique bow window, anyway. He can't back out now.

"Hawthorne!"

Gale spins around, looking through the crowd milling around to spot the owner of the voice. It's Bristel wading toward him, wearing his work clothes and his usual sloppy grin.

"Hey, long time no see," Bristel says with a grin. "How about a beer? Nice flower."

Gale shakes Bristel's hand, now definitely regretting the flower. "I'm meeting someone at the Broken Oar, actually. Maybe some other time."

Bristel glances around, wondering if she's around. "Yeah? Who?"

Gale crimps his hair through his fingers as his nerves return. "The girl I've been writing."

Bristel lets out a loud crack of laughter. The other pedestrians stare as they pass by. "Finally grew a pair and decided to ask her out?" He nudges Gale in the ribs. "Nice. So why are you hanging around out here?"

"I've never been afraid of asking girls out," Gale retorts defensively. Half the time he didn't even have to. The girls back home flocked to him – it's just the girls he _did _want that he had difficulty with. Gale shoves his hands in his suit pockets, but they're too shallow still, so he drops them by his sides. "This situation's more delicate than others. I can't bring myself to go in just yet. She could be anyone," he says.

"And there's a chance that she looks like a yeti," Bristel points out tactlessly.

Gale stops breathing. A yeti? That would be cruel. Fate wouldn't do that to him, would it? Send him the perfect girl and make her completely hideous? He gulps.

Bristel takes pity on Gale when he sees his stricken countenance."I kid. She probably looks – well, do you want me to take a peek for you first?"

Gale stares at Bristel like he's a lifeline. "Yeah. Maybe that's a good idea."

Bristel walks Gale over to the bow window, but turns him around, so only his back shows to anyone in the restaurant who might be looking out. "No good having her spot you," he says. "How are you supposed to know it's her? The flower?"

"She'll have a buttercup as a bookmark," Gale replies over his shoulder, trying to be patient.

Bristel nods. "Right. Buttercup and book. Now, let me see. Just a minute," Bristel leans over the sill to gaze around the pub. An older couple sitting in the booth nearby give him a dirty look. Bristel winks back, then keeps searching.

"Do you see anything?" Gale asks. He can't fathom what would be taking Bristel so long to find one girl sitting by herself with a book in a pub. It's not as though any other patrons would fit that description. Unless maybe she hasn't arrived either? Gale glances around the court quickly to see if any such girl fitting the criteria is standing or walking nearby.

"Not yet…." says Bristel. "...ah! Now, there's a beautiful girl!"

Relief and hope flare in Gale's chest. He spins around, but turns his head away so he can't see in the window He's acting like Vick on his birthday, pretending not to look for a present. "Yeah?"

"Very beautiful," says Bristel. Then he shrugs one shoulder. "But no flower."

Gale groans. Asking for Bristel's help might have been a mistake.

Bristel snaps his fingers. "Wait a minute. I think I see it."

"And the girl?" Gale grills.

"Just there by the bar." Bristel grabs Gale by his jacket sleeve. "Yes. It's the only flower in the place. Yellow."

"That's right." Gale has lost his ability to blink. He clears his throat. "What's she like?"

"I can't see her face." Bristel inches around trying to find different angles. "She's sitting with her side to the window. - There's a cup of coffee on the table."

"Yeah?" Gale says eagerly. He never thought he'd be so intrigued by a little detail like that. She's a coffee drinker. That's one compatibility.

Bristel smooshes his face against the pub window to see, leaving a mark. "Wait...She's picking something up. Hawthorne - she's reading!" he gasps, turning to look at Gale.

"Well, why shouldn't she read?" he snipes. "That's what you do with books."

Bristel shrugs. "All right, if you like that type."

"What else?" He's starting to form a picture of her in his mind.

"She is leaning forward now. She..."

Bristel whistles, then he leans back with quiet awe.

Gale stares at his face and start to catch some of the same sentiment. "Can you see her face?" he whispers.

"Yes," says Bristel, his voice hushed. He's still gripping Gale's jacket.

"Is she pretty?" Gale prompts him.

"Very pretty," Bristel sighs.

Gale grins triumphantly, even though he had nothing to do with her looks. "What's she like?"

Bristel gulps and loses some of the afterglow. In fact, he looks almost guilty. "Well, she's young, er, maybe a year or so younger than you. Definitely not your mother. I should say she looks..." he blinks down at Gale's arm, then scratches his head. "She has a little of the coloring of the mayor's kid."

Gale grimaces and frees his arm from Bristel's grasp. "Madge? What, Madge Undersee from the office? Let's not bring her into this," he says sourly. He grinds the heel of his shoe into the ground, trying to get rid of the image of a certain girl now topping his _Avoid at all Costs _list. "So, she's blonde, I take it?"

Bristel steps away from the window. Gale can see the wheels moving in his head. "Now, remember how all the guys were in school. We always thought it'd be fun to mess around with a girl from Town. Blond hair and blue eyes had a certain…forbidden appeal."

Gale scowls, wondering what the trip down memory lane fits into his date. "Yeah, if their dads wouldn't call the Peacekeepers on us."

Bristel shrugs. "The risk was half the fun, and eh, the more prestigious the father, the higher the risk."

"Bristel, what does this have to do with anything?" Gale grouses, at the end of his short fuse. "The last girl I want to talk about right now is Madge Undersee or any other townie."

Bristel looks like he suspected as much. "Well, if you don't like Madge Undersee, I can tell you, you won't like that girl," he says like a man fitting a noose over his own head.

Gale gives him a sharp look. "Why?"

"Because it is Madge," Bristel remarks, making a show of picking off a speck of dust from his sleeve. Then he squints down at the fabric and picks off a few more. Looks like it's his turn to do laundry.

At first Gale doesn't register what Bristel means because it's just impossible that fate would do this to him a third time. And then he remembers that tragedies come in threes. Gale bumps Bristel out of the way of the window to see for himself. He spots the book open on a table and a flower next to it. Slender fingers wrap around a coffee cup, lifting it up to the lips of Madge Undersee: Harpy. He almost chokes when he sees that she let her hair down out of that twist he mentioned to her at work. Like spun flax, yellow strands tumble down the back of a light blue cotton dress he's never seen her wear to work. It's a bit faded, but clean and pressed. He can't tell if all the buttons are accounted for from the window.

Madge's eyes aren't on the book, but on the door kitty-corner to the window like she's expecting someone - and she is. Him.

Gale turns slowly away from the glass, then he sags against the outside wall as ice shards in his chest make it difficult to breathe. His face turns to stone along with the rest of him as he scrambles to protect himself from the barrage of different feelings Madge causes to rise in him. He pulls the buttercup out of the buttonhole, worrying the soft, yellow petals between his fingers. He can't look at it. The flower drops from his fingers and he crushes it with his shoe.

Bristel watches his friend's disappointment play out with a sad expression. "So, you aren't going in?" he asks when Gale drops the flower.

Gale kicks the offensive object underneath the sill. "No," he mutters. "Let's call the whole thing off."

"Do you want me to give her a note for you, at least?" Bristel suggests, his sense of fairness piqued.

"No."

Bristel balks. "What? Will you make the poor girl wait?" He knows Gale didn't get along with the Undersee girl but that seems too harsh. After all, she's got her own set of hopes riding on this meeting.

"Why shouldn't Madge wait?" Gale growls, glowering like a storm cloud. "For the last three months she's made my life hell."

"But still," Bristel points out, "she wrote those letters, my friend."

Those letters made Gale happy – and a fool. Well, his misfortune.

"The only thing _I'll_ be writing from now on is a pile of reports." Gale shakes his head, lost in his own gloomy thoughts. "First Katniss, then Jo. Now the letters. This just adds insult to injury," Gale spits.

Bristel pats his shoulder. "You're hurt now, but maybe you should think about this before you walk away. You might regret it later."

Gale brushes his hand off. "I can't face her," he says angrily. "Do you think she wants to see me? Forget it."

"Alright. Don't go in." Bristel grabs Gale's shoulder to stop him from storming off. "When you calm down, come and see Tansy and me some time. You know, all the kids running around will cure you of matrimony anyway."

"Sure." Gale tries to muster some humor, for Bristel's sake. "I'm going home. Goodbye, Bristel."

Bristel drops his hand. "Bye, Hawthorne."

Gale strides in one direction and Bristel in another. He passes people by on his directionless trek through Level 4, but the colors and sounds blur together. He doesn't get as far as his long legs _should _carry him before curiosity takes over. Madge wrote those letters, which means she has two very conflicting ideas about him floating around in her head.

And part of him feels relieved, of course, that the girl turned out to be as pretty as he hoped, but hell's teeth. What a harpy. To read her letters, she thinks he's the world and more. In reality, she believes Gale's not worthy of the lint between her toes. If she even gets lint between her toes – she probably doesn't. Too human for her. He laughs bitterly, recalling their conversation earlier back in the office when she declared, with umbrage, that she had a boyfriend. He'd love to see the look on her face if she knew just who she'd meant.

On second thought, it's not funny at all.

"Hell's teeth," he curses under his breath, turning around. He's got to know what could happen.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N**: Ah, I love the smell of a cliffhanger in the evening.


	10. Bad Romance

**A/N**: Many thanks to Neeecole, Shar and Ella for reviewing the last chapter, since I can't reply personally.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER 10<strong>

**Bad Romance**

* * *

><p>When Madge worked at the Broken Oar, she once suggested they sand down the tabletops. Not that she cared one way or another about the naked mermaids and people's favorite curse words knifed into the wood like expletive dictionaries. It was the crumbs that bothered her, the ones she could never scrub out of all the tiny cracks. The manager hadn't thought much of the idea, literally. The crumbs were still there.<p>

Ten minutes after the appointed time of the date, Madge gave up staring at the door so the other patrons wouldn't get an idea in their heads that she'd been stiffed. If he arrived, it would be a pleasant surprise. If he didn't, she wants to come across as an independent young woman who liked reading in pubs alone on a Thursday night. The one night, apparently, that the asylum would let her out.

Because one would have to be a little unhinged to like reading in pubs, what with the constant din of semi-intoxicated patrons, clattering plates, clanking mugs and tumblers, and chair legs scrapping against the floor. The Broken Oar certainly isn't a library. She can hardly hear herself think. Thus, the crumb-gazing.

Plus, Madge startles every time the swinging doors of the pub bang together. This time, portly man in dirty coveralls enters and stamps his way toward her table. He gives her a leering grin when she catches his eye by accident when she looks for the book or the buttercup, unable to help herself. The man has to be in his fifties or sixties, with jowls that wobble when he walks. She glances sharply away. No flower appears on his person, but her heart leaps into her throat and doesn't crawl back down into her chest until the last second when he veers toward the end of the bar nearby. She exhales in relief only to jump again when the doors open for a couple who look like they already stopped at a few other pubs beforehand.

Anticipation and impatience will be the death of her, she swears.

"Excuse me, Sugar, could I have this chair?" A well-endowed, middle-aged waitress carrying a coffee carafe in one hand grabs the chair on the other side of her little table without waiting for a reply. It catches Madge by surprise – she hadn't seen _that _danger coming.

"Oh, no, Ruga!" Madge cries, half-rising from her seat to protect the other chair. "No, you can't!"

Madge knew she might have to wait for him before he arrived, but she hadn't anticipated that she'd have to defend her place in the restaurant. What? Is the whole world bent on keeping this date from happening? Madge douses the urge to glance around the establishment in case Haymitch is tucked in alcove somewhere putting people up to these shenanigans. After all, he placed the first obstacle in her way this afternoon.

The waitress blinks suspiciously at her before she recognizes her former coworker. "Madge? Is that you? Haven't seen you around here in ages. Not since you got that fancy job on Level 1." Ruga squints at her, then puts the chair back. "Honey, your cheeks used to be rounder," she says like a suspicious mother.

What is Madge supposed to say to that? Did she look better when she had rounder cheeks? Madge quells the impulse to touch her face.

"I don't eat out much anymore," Madge says awkwardly, sitting down again. In fact, all she can afford tonight is a watered down cup of coffee, unless he's buying. "I'm meeting someone," she explains, smoothing out invisible wrinkles from her dress. "He should be here any minute."

Ruga spots the buttercup resting by her copy of _Uncommon Sense_ and gets a knowing smirk on her face. "Oh, love," she sighs. "It's one of _those _dates, isn't it?"

Madge blushes.

Ruga nods sagely. "A few nights ago we had a case with roses. Very romantic," she says, refilling Madge's cup. "But about six months ago, we had a very sad case with daisies. She waited all evening and nobody came. And when we cleaned the restaurant, underneath one of the tables we found another daisy. The man must've come in, taken one look at her, said, 'forget it,' and threw away his daisy. The jerk."

Madge swallows, but her nerves make it difficult. She glances out the window for the first time, wondering if such a thing might happen to her. She hadn't entertained the notion that he'd do something like that – try to get a look at her before coming in. The action seems dishonorable after asking her out. It would be beneath his dignity, she decides. Her friend wouldn't do that to her, would he?

"Ruga, is your clock a little fast?" Madge's voice crackles. "My watch says 6:45 and yours says 6:51."

Ruga chuckles, a deep, throaty sound. "I'd give him a few more minutes," she stage-whispers over the echo of conversations at other tables, like she's letting Madge in on a secret. "Men are always late. Mark my words."

Madge hopes that's all it is. She wraps her fingers around the refilled cup of coffee to soak up the warmth, then she takes a bracing sip. Maybe she should have splurged on that gin and tonic. Waiting like this rubs her nerves raw.

"Ruga!" a customer bellows. "We need a chair over here!"

Madge gives Ruga a look of commiseration, not missing this job one bit.

"Not a lot's changed since you left." Ruga rolls her eyes. "I'm coming, you sodden git," she mutters at the customer, stalking away from Madge to hassle another customer for a chair.

Madge opens her book to read another paragraph, though making sure to keep the buttercup visible. She's read the same paragraph ten times without know what it says. She can't concentrate, but she doesn't want to look like she's been waiting. But she almost gives up after several more failed attempts.

The text swims before her eyes and she rubs one of her hands over them. She checks her watch again and tries to decide when she should call it quits. She can't bring herself to do it, because that means he really didn't come after all. This hadn't entered into her list of possibilities for tonight – that he would fail to show. Although Haymitch nearly ruined her plans, Madge never doubted her friend would keep their date. Perhaps something had happened to him? An accident or maybe he had the same problem at work, which she encountered? He didn't strike her as the kind of man who would blow her off. But then, maybe that isn't a fact one would glean from a letter.

Madge sighs and turns the page of her book just for the sake of doing something with her hands. The doors bang open again, but she fixes her eyes on the page.

_People crushed by laws have no hope but to evade power. If the laws are their enemies, they will be enemies to the law; and those who have most to hope and nothing to lose will always be dangerous. _

_Dangerous but still crushable_, Madge muses, _or else the first rebellion would have succeeded_.

"Hello, Brat."

Madge visibly startles. The pages slip through her fingers, closing the book. A sick feeling twists Madge's stomach. _Nonono. This is not happening_! She quickly picks up the buttercup and sets it down on top of her book. _Then _she glances up through her eyelashes.

Yes, it is _that man_. Madge accidentally slips a curse word, which causes Gale's eyebrows to lift.

He's still wearing his work clothes, sans necktie. Black shocks of rumpled hair look like they've been hastily patted down and that five o'clock shadow of his had almost two hours to mature. To her relief, he isn't wearing a flower or carrying a book. That would be too absurd, and she mentally kicks herself for fearing the possibility. She's never actually seen him write _anything, _let alone a letter. (She secretly suspects that he copies and pastes text directly from their monthly reports to make those departmental ones to give to Haymitch.) Stupid Gale, he nearly gave her a heart attack. He's also blocking her view of the door and if her friend comes in, he might either miss her or get the wrong impression.

Madge releases a frustrated sigh. "Good evening, Gale," she says stiffly, pretending to wipe a crumb off of the table to hide her discomfort at being caught away from her father. "Shouldn't you be assembling the report?" she asks, choosing her words carefully.

Gale shrugs, but his sharp eyes keep it from looking casual. "I'm giving myself a dinner break. Even miners are allowed to have those, so I figured as a manager I could too," he says dryly. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Gale pulls out the chair she just saved from Ruga, causing Madge to scramble for it again.

What is he thinking? Madge hastily leans across the table, reaching her arm to block him from sitting in the chair. When she isn't quick enough, she half rises out of her seat again in panic. "Oh, no. You can't sit here," she stammers.

"No?" he replies casually, straightening up in the chair but not vacating it. "Expecting someone?"

Madge flushes. "As a matter of fact, yes. I have a date," she snaps, glancing nervously around the room for anyone who might be her friend. Then she pins Gale with pleading eyes. "Now _please _leave this table at once."

Gale watches her reactions, but appears only mildly interested. Madge wishes he'd point those gray eyes somewhere other than at her, but tries not to show it. The man can practically smell her discomfort, and bullies her when he does. If only her friend would come and give Gale that set-down he promised.

"That's interesting. I thought you'd want to stay home after the incident this afternoon." He adds with an insinuation threading his voice, "Must be someone important to tear you away from your ailing father."

Madge's whole body frowns at Gale, if that's possible, as her distress takes over. Gale's insinuation that she would neglect her father makes her bristle all over. She's spent the greater part of five years taking care of her father – and her mother before that! She deserves a chance to do something for herself for a change. But she also doesn't want to give Gale the impression that she left the office knowing that her father would be just fine. Madge hadn't known that until she arrived in her flat to find Mr. Undersee queasy, but enjoying a good book. In fact, if Madge didn't know her father better, she'd think he'd purposefully made himself sick to stop her from going on her date – but that's a silly idea. He wouldn't thwart her like that.

"My father is quite all right _now_, thank you," she replies testily, deciding to lay out the truth instead of cringing around it. "You didn't say I had to return, and since I have a date, I didn't. Now please leave before my boyfriend gets the wrong impression."

Gale's face contorts for a millisecond, and Madge wonders if she actually saw it before his face smooths into that indifferent, stony expression she remembers from Sunday mornings when he and Katniss would sell strawberries on her doorstep. His heavy eyebrows chisel their way into upward slants, the barest hint that he's curious.

"If he's any man of substance, he won't be scared off by me," Gale remarks, drumming his fingers over the graffitied wood. "He is a man of substance, isn't he?"

"Well, I…."

Something in his eyes, a glint or spark, makes Madge suspicious. He's goading her, but why? Her eyelashes flutter with confusion, then indignation, when she realizes he's trying to pick on her choice of men.

"Of _course _he is," she retorts. Gale smirks at her, having gotten the reaction he wanted, she assumes. Madge sees it plain as plain and her blood starts to boil. "And I'll thank you not to be sarcastic."

Gale leans into his chair, making himself comfortable. He points at her book. "Nice flower. And I see you're reading political theory," he says, turning the book so he can read the spine.

"Yes, do you mind?" She swats his fingers away from the cover, then straightens it back and fixes the flower on top.

"Mind? Why should I?" he inquires impishly. "I just didn't expect to meet you in a pub with a book, that's all. It's quite a surprise." His eyes seem to drill into her, despite the bland tone he's using. "I didn't know you cared for non-fiction…or pubs."

Madge returns his penetrating gaze with a haughty one of her own. "There are many things you don't know about me," she says icily. "But there's no need for you to pry."

"There are many things you don't know about me, either," Gale replies. He leans forward on his elbows. "As a matter of fact, there might be a lot we don't know about each other. _People seldom go to the trouble of scratching the surface of things to find the inner truth_."

He got that out of a self-help book someone mailed to him anonymously after Jo left him and he fled to the woods. Titled something like _A Table for One: A Sucker's Guide to Singleness_.He read the first chapter or two, then used it for kindling, with his crew's blessing. They got a kick out of it.

Madge pauses momentarily thrown off by Gale's lapse into eloquence. She drinks coffee and recovers. "I really wouldn't care to scratch your surface," she says with disdain, "Literally or figuratively, because I know exactly what I'd find."

"What's that?" he asks with a tone suggesting that he's ready for a good laugh.

Madge bristles at his amused tone. "That you're a machine instead of a man," she snaps. "Instead of nerves, you have wires. Instead of sinews, you have cogs. Instead of a heart, a cuckoo clock, which doesn't work," she lists in a singsong voice.

"Instead of a heart, a cuckoo clock," Gale quotes back. He purses his lips, mulling it over. "That's pretty good. You have an uncommon talent for expressing yourself," he says admiringly, though it doesn't match the ice-cold glint in his eyes. "A very interesting mixture of poetry and meanness."

"Meanness?" she huffs. "You're one to talk—"

Gale holds up his hand. "Calm down. I'm only trying to pay you a compliment."

A compliment? Madge huffs. The man is utterly deranged, she decides. Or perhaps he didn't pay attention to the Word of the Week vocabulary…during his entire educational career. Absurd. She's tempted to tell him not to use big words he doesn't understand.

"You're impossible," she grumbles instead, crossing her arms. "And boorish."

Ha. Let him figure out those words without the help of a dictionary.

Gale shrugs. "You said yourself that I am no gentleman," he reminds her, using a chirpy voice to quote her.

"And I was right," Madge hisses, blinking furiously. She doesn't relish being quoted. "You were threatening to hit me and now when I ask you not to sit at my table, you refuse to leave."

The less than subtle hint to leave bounces right off of Gale. Madge glances at the counter to see if Bartel, the bartender, is tied up serving customers. Maybe he'd bounce Gale for her?

"He won't."

Madge snaps back to look at Gale, stunned. "What?"

"I leave big tips and Bartel and I go way back. He's a veteran, too," Gale remarks. "He won't throw a fellow soldier out."

Madge struggles to pick her jaw up out of her lap. Gale often irritates her, but his uncanny ability to read her mind unsettles her. She'd rather be simply irritated.

"How did you know—"

"Nevermind that," Gale says indifferently. "Anyway, I only joined you because you looked a little forlorn sitting here by yourself when I came in, so I thought…." Gale scratches his jaw. "Look, if your party doesn't show up, would l..."

The insinuation that Gale thinks she needs _him_ for anything offends her sensibilities – she's certainly not desperate enough to want him to protect her feelings!

"I am _not _forlorn," she states, flashing angry, cornflower eyes at him. "Don't worry about that. My party _will_ show up. So you don't have to entertain me."

"I'm not trying to," he says gravely. "But now that I'm here, I should mention something to you."

Madge glances impatiently at her watch, then back at Gale. "If it's about work, you can tell me tomorrow when I'm being paid for it. If it's not," she sniffs, "I doubt I'd care to hear."

Gale goes back to silently watching her again until she's squirming. His eyes flicker down to the neckline of her dress, then back up to her face in a matter of seconds. She self-consciously fingers the buttons there, unnerved that he just checked her out in the middle of an argument.

"You're not remotely curious?" he challenges, having lost interest in the blouse portion of her dress.

"Ha," she scoffs with forced bravado. "You overestimate your appeal."

Gale's eyes narrow and Madge congratulates herself for cracking that stony exterior of his.

"You know, some women do find me appealing."

For a moment, his frankness cracks a little of her exterior, as well. She underestimated his arrogance, though she can't argue. She wasn't deaf to the rumors going around in school when they were kids.

"I'm sure a certain class of women do," Madge chirps, when she recovers.

"You might someday," he remarks.

Madge blushes at his directness and to her embarrassment, chokes on air. "Don't kid yourself," she says around a cough. "Your ego is absolutely colossal."

"Yeah, not bad," he rejoins. "How's yours?"

"A little more proportionate to my size," she snaps back.

"I said your date would show up." Ruga comes shuffling back, stopping Gale from adding anything further. She tosses a menu in front of him. He picks it up with idle curiosity.

"Welcome back, honey. I didn't know you knew our Madge," she says, showing off all of her teeth to him. "Whaddaya have?"

Madge snatches the menu from Gale's fingers. He blinks at the empty space, then gives Madge a lopsided frown.

"I assure you, Ruga, this _man _is not my date and he was just leaving," she says pointedly, trying to hand the menu back to the waitress before Gale can make a grab for it.

Ruga's sharp eyes swivel back and forth between them, before picking up on the tension acting like a vacuum around the table, sucking out what little warmth the pub had. Still, she grins and sidles closer to Gale. One woman's irritant is another's nice bit of ass, after all.

"Don't worry, sweetie, I'll take you home if she won't." Ruga winks at Gale, who looks momentarily stunned. Madge rather enjoys his discomfort. Apparently women of a certain age are outside of his interest range, but he's not outside of theirs. Who knew he had standards?

Gale scoots the chair back, giving him some space from Ruga's buxomly figure. "Yeah, I'm just going…er, just make it the usual to go."

"Suit yourself, handsome." Ruga shrugs, clearly not discouraged. "Tell your dark-haired friend to bring his little girls around more often. We've added chicken fingers to the menu."

"Sure," he mumbles.

Ruga stomps off again to place his order an wait on other customers.

Dark-haired friend? Madge wonders, then stamps out her curiosity.

Gale gets up as he said he would, but Madge's relief is short-lived when he parks himself at the table directly behind her. His chair bumps into the back of hers and their shoulders brush when he turns in his seat.

"She means my friend Bristel." He feigns a conspiratorial whisper. "He's from Twelve. Has three sets of twin girls."

"Ugh. Gale, are you still here?" Madge chides over her shoulder. If she were standing on her own two feet, she'd stamp one. "Are you deliberately trying to spoil my evening? Do you hate me that much?"

"I don't hate you," he objects. He sometimes would like to strangle her though, Madge has seen that in his eyes – maybe as often as he would see it in her eyes.

Only Madge's upbringing keeps her from snorting outright the way Gale often does. "Oh, I suppose you love me," she retorts with an annoyed flounce of her hair.

Gale cringes. "No, why should I?"

"I don't want you to," she says peevishly, staring at the door. "I was being sarcastic. I want you to leave me alone and stop ruining my date."

Gale turns so they're sitting back to back again. "I'm not trying to ruin anything." He leaves out that she can't have a date if the second party fails to arrive.

Madge's face twists like she's bitten a lemon. "Right. You haven't tried to spoil anything for me since the day you stepped foot in Thirteen."

"I don't know where you get the idea that I have some vendetta against you," Gale needles over his shoulder. "Your boyfriend's the one not showing up."

"He will show up," Madge huffs. Then she groans, having fallen for his provocation. Her hands ball into fists that she forces into the pockets of her dress so he won't notice how much he gets under her skin. "See? Just like this, you are constantly provoking me, Gale. Don't deny it."

Madge can feel him shifting in his chair as it bumps into the back of hers. She grits her teeth in annoyance and tries scooting her chair closer to her table.

"Only because you started calling me Eyebrows," Gale grumbles. He's struck with an inspiration and twists around in the chair to glare at her profile. "And I'd like to take this opportunity, Madge Undersee, to inform you that I don't wear extra lining on the back of my shirts to hide the scars there."

Madge perks up, turning in her chair also. Her blue eyes show genuine astonishment. "Don't you?" she gasps. Ilona will be very interested to hear that tomorrow.

Gale's nostrils flare, which tells her she's touched on a sensitive subject. Well, he brought it up first. It's not her fault if he's vain about his back.

"No," he grouses, giving her the stink eye.

Her eyebrows rise in disbelief. "Well, I have information to the contrary," she sniffs haughtily, turning back toward the door. "Mr. Trivet assured me that you have your shirts specially made to hide the ridges," she chatters flippantly over her shoulder.

"That's a lie!" he barks, rising from his chair. "So that's the kind of a man you trust. How did he find out I had any scars in the first place?"

Madge, to her credit, does not shrink away as he leans over her, imposing and irritated. She admits nothing.

"Sit down, Gale. You're making a spectacle of yourself," she hisses. "Junius has to sign off on all your tailoring bills since the office – for some _mysterious_ reason – is paying for a majority of your expenses."

"I've never been to a tailor in my life," he announces, with no hint of sitting down. The gently drunk couple nearby stops burbling to one another in order to watch the drama unfold. "If you think my scars are that bad, I'll take off my shirt right now and show you."

Madge gasps, glancing around the room to see if other customers are staring yet. "You will do no such thing!" she cries. "Please, sit down at once. And for goodness sake, keep your clothes on."

Gale's ominous eyebrows form dark ridges over his eyes. "You think I'm bluffing?" he challenges, untucking his dress shirt and working on the buttons while she stares at him in horror. "And how would you like it if I remarked on the bags under your eyes?"

Madge's ears turn red at the unexpected assault on her looks. "That's exactly what you did do," she retorts. "Ilona told me!" The secretary has kept Madge faithfully updated on all of Gale's railings about her.

"After you started making fun of my eyebrows!" he snaps.

"Your eyebrows look like they could crawl off your face," Madge divulges testily, "and I do _not_ have bags under my eyes! Would you sit down?"

Gale sits, but back in the seat at her table that she told him to vacate. Madge huffs, but gives up trying to get him to leave. At this point, it hardly matters.

"Yes, you do, and it's going to take a lot more than makeup to hide them," he opines with fierce relish. She wonders how long he wanted to say that to her face. "And let me tell you something else, Undersee. You may be intelligent, but as for your actions, you're cold and snippy like Mrs. Mellark. You'll have a tough time getting a man to fall in love with you. If he bothers to show up tonight, he'll regret it."

Madge stares at him in high dudgeon, her back ramrod straight and fingers clutching the table until they're white. Mrs. Mellark, though dead, had become such a byword for domestic horror that, six years later and a whole district away, her name still evokes powerful images. Madge is almost certain that she's going to slap Gale's face. But then the tension in her body melts. She leans against the back of her chair and laughs.

Gale's eyebrows slide up to his hairline at the sudden change in her demeanor. He looks at her like she's crazy as another round of giggles makes it impossible for her to say a word for several minutes.

Madge places her hand on her chest when she's gotten a grip on herself and gives him a condescending smile.

"I'm like Mrs. Mellark? So, no man could fall in love with me? Gale, you're getting funnier every minute." She laughs again just to prove it. "I could show you letters that would open your eyes." She shakes her head. "No, you probably wouldn't understand what's in them. They're written by a type of man so far superior to you it isn't even funny. I have to laugh when I think of you saying no one would want me. You little _insignificant_ miner."

Gale's taken aback by her vehemence and the surreal experience of hearing her talk about him…to him…in two very different ways. They've been pretty rude to one another, but he never expected her to belittle him by bringing up the old Seam/Town dichotomy. A dark cloud passes over his countenance.

"So, that's the way you think," he asks coldly. "That's a bit low, even for you."

Madge tries pulling herself back together and defend herself after making that flippant remark. "You likened me to Mrs. Mellark." He called her unlovable. What could be worse than that?

"No matter what this guy thinks of you, I stand by what I said," Gale informs her coldly, jabbing the tabletop with his finger to underscore his words. "And I'll add that you're a snob."

A snob! Her hand flies to her mouth. She knows she's gone too far by calling him insignificant and regrets it, but he went too far, also.

Ruga appears unexpectedly with a take-out bag, which she places in front of Gale. The waitress eyes them both, picks up on the hostility and wisely moves on as soon as Gale fishes some change out of his wallet.

During the interval, the edge of Madge's anger abates enough for her to feel slightly appalled by what she said, even if his words were just as cruel. "Gale, I…I didn't mean—"

"Forget it," Gale mutters, getting up and taking his bag. He feels Madge's eyes on his back while he walks out of the Broken Oar.

Madge's hands shake, so she hides them in her lap. Long after he's gone, she's still reeling from their argument. Why does she feel bad now? After months of bickering and insults, why can't she shrug it off like she always did? Because it's not about the job anymore – their conversation tonight touched on something much more personal. She knows they were never meant to be friends, but now their much more likes enemies.

She hid how much his words hurt her, calling her unlovable, cold. Did she deserve that? The worst part for Madge, however, is that she can't believe how she completely lost her temper or the look on Gale's face when she called him an insignificant miner. Where had that come from? She never felt at all superior to the people in the Seam. Her parents didn't raise her that way. But she did know it would hit a nerve – and it certainly had.

No, as much as she dislikes Gale, and as much as he's made every effort to spoil her life, conscious or unconscious, she should not have allowed him to shake her composure that way – she should not have stooped to digging up old social grievances. In belittling Gale, she belittled herself.

Oh, but she'd been angry. Their bickering engrossed all of her attention, making her forgot to look for the gentleman wearing a flower in his lapel. Now it seems she's missed him altogether, if he even came. Madge now seriously doubts it. She doesn't have to look at the clock on the wall to draw that conclusion. Bitter tears of disappointment prick the back of her eyes, but she forces herself not to give in to them.

Her day could not have gone worse.

Two hours passed since Gale left. Between her shame for allowing Gale to provoke her into saying something completely against her principles and the bitter stab of rejection, she feels nauseous. The coffee doesn't help her empty stomach, either. It feels like it's burning its way up her throat.

Now, in the quiet of the pub, Madge can hear Ruga and Bartel argue about something behind the counter of the bar. She watches them indifferently, unwilling to leave. It would mean going home and facing her father before she can compose her face into blank indifference. He'll be pleased that she wasn't kidnapped, Madge supposes, and might not notice that she looks upset.

Finally, Ruga approaches her table. She must have lost the coin toss with Bartel about which of them would have to kick the poor girl out.

Ruga collects the coffee cup and the spoon from Madge's table. "Sorry, honey, we're closing up for the night," she says.

Madge feels humiliation pool in her stomach. It doesn't help her state of mind when Ruga doesn't charge her for the coffee, either. Pity only makes it worse. But Madge has done her share of arguing tonight.

Ruga reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. "We didn't find anything under the tables, if it makes you feel better."

Only in the sense that slamming one's finger in a door hurts slightly less than hitting it with a hammer.

"Goodnight, Ruga," Madge whispers. Her voice cracks embarrassingly. She quickly gathers her book and her slightly wilted buttercup, holding them to her chest for comfort, or perhaps as a shield.

"Madge…," Ruga wipes her free hand anxiously on her apron. "You should bring your father around for dinner on Wednesday nights. We have those special discounts for seniors. You know, if you ever need to get out of the house."

Madge's heart feels like it's turning to stone. Ruga means well and they always got along, even though the other waitress always had a brasher personality. But Madge's pride is on the line.

"Thank you, Ruga," she says stiffly, though it pains her to acknowledge that she needs any kind of a handout.

Madge picks her way across the floor, unsteady on her feet. She pushes her way through the double doors and turns toward the lifts, but not before sweeping the court with her careful eyes for anyone who might be wearing a buttercup. Most of the pedestrians have gone home.

As she passes by the window, something catches her eye. The last straw holding her composure together comes away when she finds a crushed buttercup underneath the sill outside of the restaurant. Madge picks it up and gently smooths the broken petals, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over at the sight of the poor, mangled thing. One manages to escape and she swipes it away with trembling fingers.

Her friend must have taken one look through the glass and decided he didn't like what he saw. Or maybe he spotted Gale talking with her? It doesn't matter which. He didn't think she was worth coming in to investigate. And the most horrible part is that Gale was right. The man behind the letters didn't want her – he didn't even bother to meet her to draw that conclusion. She hadn't expected him to be so shallow. Fear settles in her stomach like cold ice shards. Maybe nobody ever will ever want her. She has Gale to thank for the particular doubt.

A familiar, steady throbbing begins in her temples. Madge tucks the broken buttercup between the pages of her book and tries to make it home before the headache begins in earnest.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N:** After that, I think we all need to stop by Peeta's for some cheesecake. Anyone who can spot the Clark Gable quotes gets an extra piece.

Title courtesy of Lady Gaga. The reading from _Uncommon Sense_ courtesy of Mr. Edmund Burke (who would probably not appreciate his words being cast in a treatise named, punningly, after a work of Thomas Paine's.)


	11. With Friends Like These

**A/N: **Thanks to Shar and LuckyAngel and everyone else for reviewing!

**Disclaimer**: Gale expresses some opinions toward the end of the chapter that don't necessarily reflect _mine_. So, now that that's said, enjoy. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

**With Friends Like These, Who Needs Enemies**

* * *

><p>Gale spends a long night in his office, between the report and getting caught in a slideshow of last evening looping through his mind. He could have used a soft mattress after the day he had, but that meant going back to his flat where the shoe box full of letters lies hidden under his bed. He knows that's the first place he'd go, the desire to read each one under the new light shed by Madge would be too strong – and Gale doesn't want to ruin the letters just yet.<p>

He wonders if Madge is doing the same thing – not because she knows he wrote the letters, but because her fictional version of him didn't show up. Is she disappointed? Is she reading the letters again or burning them? What does she think of him now? Well, paper him.

Gale's stomach twists as his thoughts dart away from the one thing he knows he has to do…sometime. He can't bring himself to accept that he'll have to tell her the truth - there's no way he could set her straight now. Too humiliating. And it's not just that she leveled "dear friend" by bringing up the old Town/Seam dichotomy. He knows he pushed her that far. He's kicking himself for it, then punishing himself for caring. If he had any kind of sense, he would've walked away as soon as Bristel told him she had the buttercup and never looked back. Hell, he shouldn't have written the goddamn letters in the first place.

Gale's thoroughly learned his lesson – any kind of decision made in the middle of nowhere when you're lonely is bound to be a bad one.

Now that he's had a chance to cool down though, Gale wonders about her own bitterness and disappointment. Some odd sensation he hasn't connected with Madge twinges in his chest. Sympathy? He's not actually feeling sorry for her? Can't be. It's crazy. From day one she'd been nothing but a terror. Gale chalks it up to lack of sleep and indigestion.

Lesson number two, giardiniera and heartbreak don't mix.

He remembers how she tried to manipulate him the day before so that she could leave. Her future or life or something big like that depended on her date.

They're a fine pair of fools.

That brings Gale back around to the thought he wants to avoid. Madge deserves to know as much of the truth as he knows now. Gale prides himself for his candor. Usually. Instead of him leading her to believe that her date never showed, at least she could know that Gale _was_ her date and that she wouldn't want him for anything. That has to feel better than not knowing – if only she'd given him the chance! She'd made that snotty remark, then he'd lost his temper. There's no way he'd be able to tell her the truth now that he's played her.

Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe she isn't as crazy about him as he'd been about her. On paper.

But then, you know it's bad if you have to lie to yourself. And Gale's always been the brutally honest sort.

_Hell's teeth. _

…

Before the others show up for the day, Gale slips out of the office to buy a cup of coffee from a vendor nearby. He can't stomach the burned stuff Ilona brews every morning. She's sweet but slightly inept in that department.

Terrance arrived, already waking up the office for the day. He's over at the copy machine, refilling paper trays when Gale gets back. He nods at the boy. If he actually said anything, Terry would probably wet himself.

Gale hides his coffee behind a pencil cup on his desk where Ilona won't see it if she needs to come in and feel offended, then he waits for her to arrive. In the meantime, he runs to the bathroom to rinse the grit out of his eyes. There's nothing he can do about the black shadow growing on his face. He's still wearing the rumpled suit clothes he wore yesterday, but there's nothing he can do about that, either. Not that he wants to. The outfit's actually more comfortable this way, and with the day's growth of beard and bone-aching weariness, he feels more like himself than he has in months. Unkempt and surly.

Ilona's prompt, unlike a certain intern, always arriving up between 8:50-8:55 a.m.

"Mornin', Ilona." Gale strides past her from the bathroom to his office just as she finishes punching in for the day. "Tell Madge I want to see her in my office when she gets in, would you?"

Ilona nods, though it's obvious by her raised eyebrows and thin-pressed lips that she's questioning the wisdom of the request. But unlike Madge, Ilona doesn't tell him no.

Gale closes his office door behind him, then settles into his armchair for a powernap while his coffee cools. He figures he has a half hour at least before Madge scurries in.

Madge knocks softly on the door at 9:38 a.m.

Gale startles awake, swinging his long legs off of the desktop. He swallow back the last of his coffee and realizes he has no idea what he's going to say to her once she comes in – he only wants to get a good look at her after what happened last night and can't gawk in front of the others.

Madge enters, looking like she slept upside down, danced with a hobo, then got dressed in yesterday's clothes. Not unlike Gale. Her usually perfect blond coif isn't twisted quite right and some of her hair's falling out of the side. He wonders if she went home last night or slept in a booth at the Broken Oar, waiting for someone who'd never come.

"Morning," he mumbles. "Oh, thanks."

She hands him his suit jacket, which he left crumpled on the chair in front of his desk, which he only recently unearthed from a stack of portfolios. She silently lowers herself into the chair and clutches both of its wooden arms until her fingers turn white.

That's promising. She didn't use them to scratch his eyes out.

Madge also doesn't return the pleasantries. Not because she's belligerent, but he thinks she's still half-asleep, judging by the stoop in her shoulders and her slightly unfocused gaze. He's not sure where to start with her when she's quiet like this. She watches him from hooded eyes, probably wondering if he's going to bring up last night. Well, she shouldn't worry because he's loath to mention it.

Madge's forehead wrinkles as the silence continues. "Ilona said you want to see me," she murmurs, her voice crackling.

Gale scratches his head. "Er, you were late this morning. Everything okay with your dad?"

"He's fine," she says distractedly. He notices that she looks kind of pale and wonders if it's his fault. "Is the report finished?"

"Oh," he says. "Uh, yes. Almost. I need to talk to Junius, actually. Would you call him in here?"

Madge blinks and seems to perch uncertainly on her chair. "Isn't there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

Gale shuffles some papers for the sake of doing something with his hands. He has what he needs from her: that she's just as fazed by last night as he is – and even less willing to discuss it.

"Uh, no that's all," he says quickly. "You can go. Just call Junius."

Madge gives him a look like he might sprout a second head as she rises from her seat. Gale reflects that a second head might actually be useful. But if Madge thinks he's acting strangely, she doesn't say. She nods mutely, closing the door behind her.

…

An annoyingly perky rap on the door warns Gale that Trivet's about to enter the sanctum of his office.

"You wish to see me, boss?" Junius trills, showing off his ultra-bright, techno-white teeth.

"Have a seat, Junius," Gale tells him dispassionately, eying the obnoxious peacock feather buttonhole the man has pinned to his lapel. Fitting, but still obnoxious. He wonders about men who have the time or interest to accessorize.

There are a few details he needs to go over with Junius, which he discovered in the wee hours of the morning while he was pacing his office to stay awake, grumbling over the date fail and the never-ending report.

"Thank you," says Trivet, parking himself in the chair Madge just vacated. "I'm always happy to be of service."

Gale ignores the platitude and starts pulling out the contents of one of his folders.

"I'm worried about some missing receipts. And this here, someone signed off on a packing slip." Gale hands him the printed paper. "We can't pay the vendor based on that. We need the invoice."

"Oh. I-I'm shocked." Junius blanches. "I'm not sure how that slipped by me. I'll get in contact with, eh…" he reads the slip and the paperwork stapled to it and tisks, "District 3 right away. The vendor can send a new invoice."

Gale leans forward, fixing the admin assistant with his slate-gray eyes. "Junius, you might have heard that we're having trouble with some phantom shipments and forged signatures lately. I need you to keep a sharper eye on these things."

Trivet bats his eyes. "Of course. I assure you that I will do everything imaginable to keep future errors from occurring. Always the good soldier, that's me," he chuckles.

"I'm glad to hear that," says Gale, making a show of relaxing. "Our little team will have to work together to keep more fraud at bay."

Junius straightens his shoulders and puffs out his chest. "You can count on having my utmost support," Junius declares. He leans forward and says conspiratorially, "Unlike some you know."

Gale's eyes narrow as Junius jabbers on. "What's that supposed to mean," he asks coldly.

Junius gives a vapid wave of his hand, oblivious to the snare he's walking into. "Oh, you know, we've all noticed a slight bit of tension between a certain someone and yourself." He shrugs. "Naturally, we all try to mind our own business, but well, it's a small office. But remember, even if Miss Undersee has been with us longer, you have our full—"

"Now you keep Madge out of this," Gale grouses, with a sudden flare of _something_ making his blood rush. "She's a fine employee, she works hard, and—"

Junius's jaw goes slack at the sudden turn in Gale's temper. "I don't have anything against Miss Undersee," he backpedals. "I quite admire her myself, but she's never been a fan of yours, though, and you have to admit that she tends to run late –"

"She's under a lot of stress at home, and as far as Madge is concerned, you can button your lip," Gale snipes. "Just get the right invoices and make sure you don't authorize payment on any phony purchase orders."

"Of course," Junius stammers.

"Fine," he says, calming down a notch or two. "You can go."

Junius skedaddle out of the office with his tail between his legs, one of the best sights Gale's seen in days. He feels happier than he has since last night after bawling out Trivet. Just the outlet he needed. It doesn't last long though, before Haymitch comes pounding on his door, demanding the report he hasn't finished yet.

Haymitch's bulk impedes the doorway. "Well?" he barks.

Gale frowns at his supervisor. "Report's not done."

"Why not?" Haymitch demands, not missing much with his beady eyes. He steps into the small room, closing the door. He takes note of Gale's personal disarray and the papers scattered all over his desk. "This place isn't a hotel, Hawthorne," he remarks.

Gale exhales as his exhaustion catches up with him. He picks at some of the papers around him, ignoring Haymitch's hotel comment. "I can't complete a report with improperly filed invoices and incomplete information." He shows Haymitch the same form he showed Trivet. "Oh, and someone called Major Tom signed off on a packing slip. I looked him up in the Who's Who in the Military Database. He wasn't listed, but I did find a pole dancer under that name in the phone book. Apparently, he's a big deal."

Haymitch ignores the pun. "And who authorized and filed that paperwork?"

"Goldilocks," Gale jibes. "Who else?"

Haymitch grunts unhappily. "Well, give me what you have. I'll pacify Heavensbee."

"Should I order a tail on Trivet?" Gale asks as he compiles his work to hand over.

"No," Haymitch answers, causing Gale to give him a sharp, questioning look. "We'll see what Plutarch wants. I doubt that Goldilocks has the brains for fraud, anyway."

Gale keeps a few additional snide, overly personal remarks to himself, but ultimately draws the same conclusion. No sense in jumping to conclusions and a person would have to be a fool to work in the heart of the agency and assume he or she wouldn't get caught.

Haymitch tucks the files under his arm and retreats to the door. Then he stops and turns slightly to find Gale slumping down in his chair with his eyes closed.

"Oh, and Hawthorne?" he sneers.

Gale opens one eye to show he's listening. "Yeah?"

"This is a place of work," he barks. "Shave before you show up next time."

Gale rolls his eyes and loosens his tie as soon as Haymitch closes the door. Thank god it's Friday.

…

On Monday, Gale uses his position to his advantage in order to observe Madge by making her help him organize the files he's finished looking at that like scattered around his desk. He gets more of a chance when she has to show him how to use the presentation software for their big meeting with Defense.

If Madge finds the sudden upgrade in the scale of her daily tasks strange, from refilling his office supplies to paperwork, she doesn't let on. On Monday and Tuesday, Madge speaks only when spoken to, walking around the office listlessly, or buries herself preparing for the meeting at the end of the week. She does whatever he wants without arguing.

If Gale didn't like the harpy version, he doesn't like Madge acting and looking like a washed out specter, either. He stops her once to satisfy his own curiosity and comes away feeling like a schmuck, and wondering why. After all, she's never done anything to him to merit any kindness. At least not since they were kids.

She works through lunch again on Tuesday. When the others are out, Gale corners her at the coffee counter.

"I meant to tell you," he says carefully, leaning against the counter and watching her through the corner of his eye, "that I acted like an ass on Thursday." It's out of left field, given how much time has elapsed since their skirmish, but he wants to find out if this gloom is connected.

Madge shrugs without looking at him, though her anemic-looking lips press into a thin line.

"I hope I didn't scare your, eh, boyfriend away," he remarks. He figures she'll snap at him to mind his own business, but his words barely seem to register with her. Except that she almost pours coffee all over the counter. She quickly sets it back on the hot plate.

"I don't know. I haven't heard from him," Madge admits dully. She frowns down severely at her own hands. "But I doubt that's your fault."

Except that it is his fault. Gale knows that and feels guilty. He hasn't written – out of sheer anger and disappointment at first – and then out of the inability to decide on the best course of action. Even when he tried to write, he couldn't get past the greeting. How can he write "Dear Friend" after what happened last Thursday?

He felt bitter when he left the restaurant that night, but that's changing too. And now he is putting things together. The way she glowed when she showed up at Katniss's place that one night. He figures it was around the time she would have gotten his letter requesting that they meet. He made her feel that way. And now he's made her feel horrible. And though it's difficult, he can't help starting to blur real Madge and paper Madge together, all the nasty bickering with the lovely thoughts and passionate ideas.

Gale feels like a sham as he retreats back into his office to give both Madge and himself some space.

He decides to talk to Katniss and Peeta about it…eventually. If things don't improve. He has to wrap his mind around the situation first. Whether he likes it or not, Madge and he were thrown together by some random act of God – which, ironically, is the same term people use to describe natural disasters. Figures. He puts the visit off for a few days, because it means admitting the whole business to Katniss _and _Peeta and it's just that strange. He can't begin to think of how he'll explain how he got himself into this mess.

But when Madge's father calls her in sick on Thursday, exactly one week after their date, he decides that the situation has taken a worse turn than he anticipated. It's high time he got some guidance where Madge Undersee is concerned.

…

Gale shows up at the Mellark place in the middle of the night, having spent the larger part of the evening reading Madge's letters for the first time since he saw her at the Broken Oar. He's been mulling over Madge under a new light now that he's read her letters knowing they're hers. Although it pains him to think of the letters as something she wrote, it's interesting to do the reverse, trying to think of Madge in light of the insights in her letters. When he got to reading the letters where she started writing vaguely about the awful coworker, he felt torn between laughing and punching the wall. To think, he'd given her advice on how to deal with himself! No wonder she's been such a firecracker. She'd tried following his letters to the T.

On the walk up to Level 6, Gale tried to talk himself into saying all the things he's going to have to say out loud to the Mellarks. He's dreading it, not being naturally vociferous. Sure, he can bust a gut talking about the old Capitol, but this is personal.

Which is why he waited till now.

Katniss and Peeta probably went to bed a couple hours ago, since Peeta gets up so early to bake. Gale presses the buzzer for the third time anyway, leaning against the doorframe to get comfortable, when the door finally opens on Katniss. She's wearing a hastily tied bathrobe and the slippers she leant to Madge that one time. Peeta stands behind her in a pair of sweatpants that are on backward.

"Sorry," Gale murmurs, slipping inside. "Were you asleep?"

Katniss closes the door quickly, clutching the top of her robe. "Yes," she says to cover up Peeta's gravely, _"No."_

"But that's okay," she continues, shooting a pained look at Peeta, who's rumpling his already messy hair. Her trained eyes take in Gale's haggard appearance. "You look like you need to talk."

Gale nods, then gets a good look at both of them for the first time as they stand in the entryway. They definitely were not technically sleeping. Katniss should do something about her hair.

"Yeah. If that's all right?" he asks Peeta with a smirk. Interrupting Peeta's time with Katniss is probably the one thing that could cheer him up after discovering Madge's identity as "dear friend."

Peeta deigns not to answer verbally. The glower and backward sweatpants says enough.

"Madge hasn't been by in the last few days, has she?" Gale turns Katniss. He wants to know what footing he's on.

"Er, no," she replies suspiciously. "Not since you both had dinner with us. Why?"

That's a loaded question. Katniss doesn't know how loaded it is or she would've locked Gale out, for sure. And Gale feels like backing out as Peeta gets an inquisitive, still surly, look on his face.

"How about some of that cake?" Gale asks, since forcing pastries and baked goods on guests seems to make Peeta happy. And to postpone the dreaded conversation.

"We're out of cake," Peeta grumbles, tramping back into the living room.

"Really?" Gale shoots a questioning glance at Katniss, wondering if Peeta's coming down with something that would interrupt his cake production.

"He moved on to pies last week," Katniss explains. Then she adds, "He's really not a night person."

"For some things I am." Peeta slumps into his chair at the table, then glares at Gale. "Well?"

Katniss scowls at Peeta as she says, "Have a seat, Gale, and tell us what's going on."

Gale slides out a chair and eases into it. "I don't know where to begin exactly."

"How about at the end?" Peeta suggests, blatantly staring down Katniss's robe when she lets go of it to take the chair across the table from him. She chooses to sit next to Gale.

"Why don't you go back to bed, Peeta," she tells him with a warning threaded through her voice. "I can talk with Gale alone."

The invocation of her past friendship with Gale works instantly on her husband. Peeta tears his eyes away from her to show that he'll behave. He'd rather cooperate than get left out.

"No, I'd like to hear what's troubling him," he mutters. "Should be entertaining. As long as it's short."

Gale didn't know Peeta was capable of sarcasm, but apparently interruptions to his nightly habits bring that out. Gale actually feels something close to kinship for him. He'd worry, but he doubts the sentiment will last.

Gale clears his throat. He should have written down the speech he prepared. Now he can't remember any of it. "It's started about a year ago."

"Is it a rash?" Peeta guesses.

"No," Gale snarls, going back to his former feeling of non-kinship. He turns so he's completely facing Katniss, blocking Peeta out. "Letters," he says, laying his open palm on the table as if the entire explanation could be found in it. Katniss watches him blankly. "I started writing letters."

Katniss's nose wrinkles. "Why would you do something like that?" Writing is only slightly below reading in terms of survival usefulness. Plus, it requires reading.

"I don't know," Gale admits. "You do stupid things when you live in a forest for months at a time with people you don't like all that much. I know we used to talk about running off into the woods when we were kids, Katniss, but it's not what I expected. It's…uh—"

"Lonely," Peeta supplies. The mention of running off made his body stiffen from habit, Gale notices when he glances over, but then Mellark fiddled with his wedding ring and relaxed.

"Yeah." Gale would like to know how Peeta knows which words to use – it's like magic.

"So, who were you writing to?" Katniss asks. "It wasn't to us," she adds glumly.

Gale closes his hand, staring at the fist on the table. "I answered a personal ad in the paper," he says quickly. The admission costs him a considerable amount of pride. "This girl, well, it's anonymous—"

"You're writing to some woman you don't know?" Katniss gapes, like Gale's turning more and more into someone she doesn't recognizes. It's not the first time she's looked at him like that.

"Uh oh," Peeta mutters. He gets up from the table and retreats to the kitchen.

Gale clears his throat, watching Peeta go. "Yeah."

Katniss looks disgusted, yet morbidly curious. "What do you write to her about?"

Gale runs agitated fingers through his hair, then forces them down again. "The same things I used to talk about in the woods at home," he confesses. "Political subjects mostly."

Katniss's eyes widen, a knee-jerk reaction even after the rebellion.

"It's safe to debate openly now," Gale reminds her. "This girl…she asked me if I thought the districts were ready for a larger measure of self-government yet. Then she started writing about the degree to which Snow censored education – Katniss, it's way worse than we thought." His blood rushes just thinking about it. "And we wrote about a lot more than that."

"You could have written to _me_ about that, Gale," Katniss points out peevishly. She glances toward the kitchen were Peeta's clattering around, and whispers harshly, "We're still friends."

Even though she's married to Peeta, she implies.

"Sure," he says, staring at his fingers on the table, then looking her in the eye. "But you never responded to my rants in the past, like you were just waiting for me to get it out of my system so we could move on," he tells her. "When I saw the ad, I wanted to find out what would happen. She has her own opinions and ways of saying things…she puts words to thoughts I've had for years and didn't know how to express."

"I had opinions, too." Katniss looks a little shame-faced, but says in her defense, "But having those kinds of opinions were dangerous."

Gale's hands form fists on the tabletop again. "But trying to stay under the radar didn't help you much, did it?" he points out. "You can't hide in a corrupt system and hope everything turns out okay. You can only give in or try to subvert it – that's what she said in one of her letters."

"She wrote that?" Katniss asks in her usual monotone, though her eyebrows rise to show her surprise.

Gale sits back in his chair. There's a warm feeling in his chest, like pride. "Yeah, she did." He smiles a little, thinking about it. "It's like she knew why I needed to theorize, and she needed the same."

This girl listened to what he had to say and contributed when his best friend wouldn't…or couldn't. Not even Jo did that. She just hated everything, and that was that.

"Subverting the government?" Peeta shuffles back in with a tray of mini pies. "Sounds like she's got some strong opinions."

Peeta's use of the term "government" triggers something in Gale.

"Hell's teeth." Gale knuckles his forehead as he's struck by a flash of inspiration. Katniss touches his arm with concern written over her face, like he's having an aneurism on her dining room table.

"Gale?" she gasps.

He shakes her arm off. "I'm fine, it's just…of course she would have strong opinions. It makes such _horrible_ sense," he groans.

He hadn't made the connection that clearly before. He hadn't made any of the _obvious _connections. Idiot. Why didn't he see all the signs right in front of him? Sure, he didn't see what he wasn't looking for, but he'll say it again, _hell's teeth._

Gale still struggles to think of Madge in connection to the letters, but now he puts her words together with Katniss's Mockingjay pin and the morphling Madge gave him, despite how the rest of the district treated his family like pariahs after the whipping. These were Madge's underhanded ways of subverting the system. Add that to the fact that her father was the mayor. Politics run in her blood. Gale's head spins with all the new connections he's making. Not only does the woman in his letters speak politically, but now he knows how she's acted on what she thinks. She'd be so perfect…if she wasn't Madge Undersee.

Katniss scowls at him, waiting impatiently for him to fill her in. "What makes sense?"

"Where her opinions come from," he tells her, not really clarifying anything. "I…met her last week."

Katniss and Peeta share a surprised glance. "You did?"

"Yeah," he chokes.

"…and…?" Peeta prods, slipping a small apple pie in front of Gale and key lime with extra whipped cream in front of Katniss.

Gale accepts a dessert fork and nearly bends it in half from squeezing it too hard. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, like he could breathe out the surrealism.

"It's Madge Undersee."

Gale can't look at either of them right away. This is the first time he's said it out loud to someone other than Bristel. It probably doesn't matter how many more times he says it – the reality is just too strange.

"Out of the hundreds of women writing ads, I picked hers." He laughs bitterly before it turns into a groan. "I've been writing to her this whole damn time."

Katniss is speechless, but Mellark looks like he put two-and-two together before Gale told them. Peeta takes the fork away from Gale before he throws himself on it or breaks it.

"That's problematic," he says.

"You think?" Gale snipes through gritted teeth.

Peeta helps himself to a chocolate custard pie and says, "She hates you."

"_Peeta,"_ Katniss scolds. She wraps her hands around Gale's. She frowns fiercely, struggling to voice her thoughts. "It's kind of a good thing," she says eventually.

"It is?" Gale and Peeta gasp at once.

Katniss shrugs. "Yes, I mean, besides the fact that you two are at each other's throats…at least it means she not writing some pervert like we were afraid she might." She glances at Peeta, then stares at her pie to avoid Gale's eyes.

Gale balks. Of course he's not a pervert! Not even when she wears what he's coined her Faulty Blouse. He exerts absolute control over himself on those days – even when Junius doesn't.

"What did she say when you met?" Peeta asks.

Gale extricates his hand from Katniss's and starts sliding the pie tin around. "She didn't know it was me," Gale admits. "She thinks her date didn't show up. As soon as I saw her sitting in the Broken Oar, I got rid of the token I was supposed to bring. I wasn't thinking."

"Red carnation?" Peeta grins broadly, despite the fact that smiles are totally inappropriate for the topic.

"Buttercup," Gale mutters.

"Quaint."

"Shut up, Mellark," he snaps, tired of dealing with the dough boy. "You don't seem all that surprised."

Peeta glances at Katniss, then back at Gale. "We knew Madge was writing to someone," he says, unfazed by Gale's moodiness. "As soon as you said, I figured it had to be her."

Gale scowls at him skeptically. "Out of the hundreds and thousands of people who correspond?" he challenges. It's ridiculous, the whole situation, but especially the odds. "And you just figured it had to be Madge?"

"Sure." Peeta points his fork at Gale. "You said that you had a problem and it involved some woman you're writing to. Well, we both know one woman who is writing letters and she really hates you."

Hates him? That's bleak.

"Did she ever talk about…me?" he asks, despite himself. "Real me."

Peeta whistles. Katniss can't bring herself to meet Gale's eyes.

"Spill," Gale demands. He scowls at Peeta as the most likely candidate to retain any of things Madge said.

"Oh yeah. You destroyed her happiness, end of the world, that sort of thing. Except the letters made her seem pretty happy," Peeta adds soberly. "Actually, this is really bad." He pushes his pie away like he just lost his appetite.

Gale glances between the two troubled faces of his friends. "Yeah?"

Peeta says thoughtfully, "I don't think she could take another blow."

_What is that supposed to mean?_ Gale mentally rails. Though he has a feeling that he does know, given the phone call he received from Mr. Undersee that morning.

"What else is there besides the letters and working in District Outreach?" he demands. He wants everything laid out for him, because the innocent act of writing letters has now taken a dire turn.

"Well, she's had a hard time since her mother died," says Katniss reluctantly, torn between protecting Madge's privacy and helping Gale understand her. "She only spends time with her dad and with us. I think she's always been kind of lonely, though."

"And what's up with her dad?" Gale presses.

"I think he must blame himself for what happened in Twelve and to his wife," Peeta contributes. "The way Madge says it, he's pretty depressed. It's affecting his health."

Gale rubs his jaw irritably. "So that's why he doesn't work?"

The Mellarks nod.

It must be nice having the luxury to go unemployed because of depression. What is it with people from Town thinking they can pass on responsibility, handing it off to their kids because they're feeling down? He doesn't get it. His own mother lost her husband and had her fourth baby at the same time – but got right back on her feet to take care of her kids. She didn't let a setback stop her from doing her duty. There are few people he admires more.

"Madge took over from that point," Peeta continues. "She waited tables at the Broken Oar for a few years. She didn't enjoy that very much, but it put her through school. We were all pretty happy for her when Haymitch offered her the internship, with the promise of advancement. Then two years later you took her job, which she worked hard for. And now…"

"And now she's in love with paper me and hates real me," Gale says bitterly.

"You didn't help yourself there, Gale, you have to admit," Katniss supplies less than helpfully.

Gale gives Katniss the stink eye, but she's used to it by now. "Well, believe me, she wasn't the only one disappointed. I'm not all that fond of real Madge either!" he grouses. "She's constantly bickering and correcting. When I try to be nice to her she thinks I'm condescending. How can she be so wonderful in her letters and such a minx in person?"

It's a rhetorical question, but Mellark didn't get the memo.

"Maybe she's a bit of both," Peeta suggests philosophically. "You just sort of bring out more of the minx when you're with her. Figure out how to stop being a condescending dou..."

Gale glares at Peeta before he gets too far along.

Peeta focuses on his pie with a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "Nevermind."

Gale clears his throat, ignoring Peeta's triumph for baiting him. "She called in sick to work today," he tells them gloomily.

That dampens Peeta's victory. He and Katniss exchange worried glances. Peeta starts to say something, but Gale stops him.

"You don't need to tell me that's bad," he adds. "She never called sick once in the two years she's worked in this office. I checked."

Peeta asks, "You think it's because of you?"

"It has to be. I knew she didn't look well on Friday or Monday. When I asked her about it on Tuesday, she almost dumped out a pot of coffee." Then he admits the shameful part he definitely prefers to keep under wraps. "I don't see how this situation can be fixed."

Gale likes to think he could fix anything, find solutions and make them happen. This just reminds him of the powerless feeling he used to get living under the old Capitol.

"You can always back out, Gale. She won't know," Katniss suggests uneasily. "Write her a letter telling her it's over. You can't keep her dangling forever. Start seeing someone else while you're here."

"That is...if you aren't, you know," Peeta begins, eyes narrowed perceptively, "too attached to her yet."

Gale's not quick enough to cover up the upset expression on his face at the thought of cutting Madge loose. That would mean losing the girl behind the letters. He grits his teeth against the sudden anxiety twisting his gut, but it's too late to hide it.

"Oh boy," Katniss mumbles.

Peeta toys with his pie plate. "So...something you want to tell us, Hawthorne?"

Gale groans into my hands. Even if she's a harpy in real life, imagining days without those letters leaves him feeling empty.

"Ouch," Peeta and Katniss say in unison. Neither one voices what they're thinking, that Gale tends to fall in love with women who aren't emotionally available to him. Of course, that doesn't stop him from reading it on their expressions.

He gives them an agonized look. "Not constructive."

"We'll try to help," Peeta offers, forgetting his earlier hostility. "Talk you up or something. There are worse odds, right?"

Gale thinks the odds have gotten worse. He's afraid of becoming the Mellark's protégé. Who knows what Peeta will come up with? And he's not about to kid himself about Katniss's contribution. Peeta married her through sheer willpower, not because she suddenly became relationship-savvy.

"Of course, you'll have to start behaving yourself," Katniss puts in. "No more making her lick envelopes or bring you coffee."

"Madge never brings me coffee," he mutters. "Believe me, I'd remember that."

Katniss rolls her eyes and finally starts into her key lime pie. The sourness gives vent to her feelings.

"Do you have a plan?" Peeta asks.

Gale shakes his head. You'd think after falling in love with two women he wasn't meant to have, he'd figure this thing out by now. But he hasn't. One thing's for sure, though. He can't give up the girl on the other side of the letters. Even if she is Madge Undersee.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Well, now you know what will get you on Peeta's bad side. You know, besides trying to kill Katniss. I have to say that a bit of Holymfwickee's Scars!Peeta seeped into this chapter and for some reason, this is my favorite of his scenes in AED. I guess I've gotten used to Peeta McCrankyPants.


	12. Heart Attack in Black

**A/N: **Ella, yes, Quintus will have another Very Brief cameo at some point. He was flying the hovercraft when Gale arrived in the Underground. Also, many thanks to anonymous and non-PMing reviewers! :D

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

**You're a Heart Attack in Black**

Madge had to give in and let her father call her in sick to work Thursday morning when the vision spots began. She could probably make it to the office even if she couldn't see properly, but then the headache would begin and she'd be useless and in agony.

Hours later, she tries to sleep off the aftermath after the most intense pain ebbed away. Her body still feels sick and weak, and her mind sluggish from the painkillers. Feverish dreams filled with arguments and empty chairs make sleep seem less restful than when she's awake and able to compartmentalize her razed emotions.

The sound of the phone ringing in the front room makes her skull feel like it's breaking into pieces. Madge's twisted body tenses in the tangle sheets sticking to her clammy skin. Her alarm clock tells her it's after one in the morning.

Madge slowly sits up, stomach lurching painfully. Her nightgown cinched up around her waist during the night and she shrugs the hem back down around her knees when she can get to her feet. In the dim glow of a nightlight, she treads in a dizzy line toward the phone on an end table, slumping onto the couch while her head spins from lying down for too long.

"Hello?" she whimpers.

"Madge Undersee?"

Madge presses her fingers into her forehead. The voice piped through the phone line belongs to Officer Treadle, the security officer assigned to Level 2.

"You're father's—"

"Yes, alright. I'll be there."

Madge drops the phone on its cradle, wincing as the sharp smack of heavy plastic hitting plastic. She should not have snapped at Treadle, but _really_. By now she knows the routine. Early morning phone calls only mean one thing – the security guards have waited a reasonable amount of time until they're tired of babysitting her father. They should just devise a three ring phone signal or something to spare her having to speak to anyone.

It's just…sometimes she wishes security would just leave her father alone. He's not hurting anyone or himself. She's tempted to just go back to bed and let them deal with him.

But she can't. Madge bites her lip, fighting against the moisture in her eyes that have been lurking too close to the surface for the last week. Her father's the one family member she still has left. She has to take care of him.

Slowly, Madge rises to her unsteady feet. Her father's housecoat lies folded over the back of his armchair, so she wraps it around herself, not caring if the guards sees her in her nightclothes with hair matted down her back.

…

Level 2 houses the hospital, the subscription library, and the vaults, he Underground version of a cemetery, and other smaller offices and agencies.

Madge spots the lone figure of her father sitting quietly on the edge of the memorial fountain outside of the vaults near the large wall with tiny brass plagues. Each one has the names of loved-ones whose ashes are buried in tiny boxes similar to the ones in the post office. A security guard standing twenty feet away gives her a nod and leaves. The sound of the water tinkling in the fountain echoes through the empty atrium. Mr. Undersee sits lost in thought, eyes unfocused, not acknowledging her. Madge settles down next to her father and gently nudges his arm with her elbow.

Mr. Undersee blinks slowly, as if in a dream, then looks down at his daughter.

"Madge?"

"They want me to bring you home," she murmurs, just like every time. They both treat every time Madge has to retrieve Mr. Undersee like it's the first time.

Mr. Undersee frowns. "I wish they wouldn't bother me," he says, breaking the pattern. "Or you, for that matter. You're not well." He observes her thoroughly. "You're still so pale. How did you manage to get all the way here?"

Unlike other times Madge has come to his rescue, Mr. Undersee is in perfect command of his emotions, calm. Not confused or overwrought. It means he's capable of being observant. At the moment, Madge doesn't appreciate scrutiny.

"I'm starting to feel better," she fibs. In reality, she feels drained by the exertion and is grateful that her father's in no hurry to leave so that she can regain some strength.

Mr. Undersee purses his lips. They sit together on the stone fountain, listening to the water falling and the contemplating the names on the memorial wall. This corner of Level 2 feels abandoned and stale. Madge doesn't like it.

"Dad, why do you come here?" she asks for the first time. Not that she hasn't wondered, but he's never been in a state to talk before. At least not when she comes to get him. And then later, she's too embarrassed to bring it up again.

"I suppose…," he pauses to consider. "It's close to your mother."

Madge startles, eyebrows furrowed with worry. "But she's not really here, Dad."

"I know, dear." Mr. Undersee pats her hand. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm a man of ideas. That plaque," he points toward the part of the wall he now has memorized, "has your mother's name on it and her ashes are there. It's the idea. Do you see?"

Madge nods. She sort of understands. It's not all that different from visiting the graves back home. But then, back home she never really had any reason to go to the cemetery. All her other family members had died before she was born, so she didn't know them.

Now she knows plenty of the names of the dead. She leans against her father, feeling tapped out.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't keep doing this to you," he apologizes. Madge shakes her head to deny that he's any burden. "I have eyes, Margaret, I can see that you're troubled…and not just by me."

He's kept his peace about the Incident since Madge came home that night a week ago and locked herself in her room. She avoided him and spent long hours at work. Then the migraines started and he couldn't very well get the story from her when she couldn't tolerate any sound or light or smell. He might not know the story, but he can tell from her behavior that the date didn't go as hoped.

The incident with that friend of hers was unfortunate. But the headaches worried her father considerably. They suggested real emotional and mental turmoil. He and his wife had hoped that Madge had acquired his genes and not be trouble by the chronic headaches that plagued Mrs. Undersee. Until now, it seemed that they'd gotten their wish. But perhaps it was just the strain of several years catching up with her?

"Won't you tell me what happened?" he presses.

"Shouldn't we be thinking about Mom right now?" she replies quietly.

Mr. Undersee frowns. "That's an evasion, Madge," he says gently. "You're mother's fine now. You aren't."

Madge sighs. After a few false starts, where her lips move but no sound follows, Mr. Undersee asks the question he's feared all along. "This fellow…he didn't hurt you in any way when you met him? If he touched you…"

Madge recoils away from her father, then she feels guilty for inadvertently letting for him wonder something that horrible for a whole week.

"Of course not, Daddy! H-he just didn't come…that is, he didn't come into the restaurant. I…" Madge chokes up and has to collect herself. "I found his flower lying under the window outside. He didn't want me." She shrugs her shoulders and wraps the housecoat tighter around her waist.

Mr. Undersee stares in disbelief at first, as though he hadn't considered it possible for any man with a set of working eyes in his head to see his daughter and choose to walk away. Then his face sets into an expression of grim thoughtfulness. After years of practice schooling his reactions, he looks only mildly irritated, but Madge knows that face. On the inside, her father is seething.

"Perhaps there's been some mistake? The flower might have been dropped by someone else?" he suggests.

"Dad, how many people do you see walking around with buttercups?" she points out wearily.

"Has he written to you at all to offer an explanation?" Mr. Undersee asks with an indignant edge in his voice.

Madge shakes her head. "And I can't bring myself to write to him to ask. Not after he…" didn't want her.

"That man must be out of his head to slight you," Mr. Undersee declares. "You're the best girl I know."

Her father's praise only makes her feel more horrible for not deserving it.

"I feel like the worst right now," she mumbles. After the rejection of her ex-friend and having all her hopes crushed, after the blowout with Gale at the restaurant, and all the ones before that. After the way she's allowed herself to vent her anger and behave like a spoiled child. She's made a complete fool of herself and she's ashamed of it.

"You mean because of your…disappointment?" Mr. Undersee probes.

Madge nods her head. Then her face pinches with an onslaught of tears. "And other things," she chokes. "I don't think you'd be very proud of me if you knew how I've behaved lately."

"Nonsense." He wraps an arm around her shoulders and holds her close. "I'm always proud of my girl. You always do the right thing."

Madge tries to make a scoffing sound but hiccups instead. "I'm not proud of _myself_."

Mr. Undersee sighs. "Well, I can't make you change how you feel about yourself," he admits. "Only you can do that. Perhaps you know how?"

Madge does know how, but it would mean swallowing her pride. She's afraid she might choke on it. But if it meant she could respect herself again, wouldn't that be worth it?

No matter how she's feeling physically, Madge knows she has to speak to Gale.

…

Come Friday morning, Gale's still barely processing what he's learned from Katniss and Peeta. He's planless, sleepless and running out of clean paper in his notebook – though he has a fine collection of crumpled paper balls littering his living room. With each passing day, finding the right words becomes more like pushing a boulder up a hill knowing at some point it's going to roll backward and crush him.

Gale slept only a handful of hours thanks to his overactive mind. A solution never comes to him, but he does establish some points. Like how life without the letters (i.e. ending everything) will suck. Or that convincing Madge to stop hating him and maybe fall in love will suck. And probably won't work. Even if Peeta is right and buried way down deep, past the shrew, there's the girl he's in love with.

He's got to try, right? Because that's his specialty. Trying to get girls who don't want to be gotten (by him). Some pattern of behavior.

Why couldn't life be simple like it had been for his parents? They met in school, got a little too familiar in the Meadow, got toasted in a hurry and ended up with him a little while after. Shotgun romance. Simple. None of this mooning around and _politics_ – not this kind of politics anyway. You can't just vote a girl out of the picture. No, this kind involves dancing around on eggshells so that nobody sets off a landmine.

Somewhere around the mental images of landmines, Gale figures his thoughts won't go anywhere fruitful, so he grudgingly peels himself from his unmade bed. He has to get to the office. At least there he can find something to keep his brain busy, like typing or something. Or reprogramming his communicuff. It got scrambled after he accidentally left it on when he climbed into the shower the other day. He had Madge on his mind and wasn't paying attention. Hopefully nobody wanted to get in touch with him.

Gale consults his color-coded clothing chart from Effie, shaves, and takes the stairs up to Level 1 two at a time. The construction workers sitting around drinking coffee wave to him and he gives them a nod, wondering why he never actually sees them working, then he slips into the empty office.

At his desk, Gale opens the bottom drawer where he's got a half-empty bottle of water and a box of saltines. Breakfast of champions. He crunches on a few crackers, scattering crumbs on his papers. He brushes them off of the printout of the slideshow he's supposed to present tomorr—

No. Today.

Gale curses under his breath, checking the desk calendar where a big red circle marks the date. He forgot about the meeting with Defense, after the way his personal life suddenly intersected with his business aspect and hijacked his mental faculties. He remembers how to use the software, but he can't remember a word of the damn report.

Looks like he's getting more of a distraction than he bargained for. He starts flipping through the notes but halfway through, the sounds of people entering the office distract him. His heart rate kicks up a notch, wondering if Madge will be in today.

Instead of Madge, Haymitch stomps to the doorway of Gale's office while Ilona, Terry and Junius are barely peeling off their coats. In his meaty hands, he's flapping the new report at Gale, who watches dispassionately from his desk. From the looks of it, Thursday nights have turned into the new Friday for Haymitch. Either that or he started washing his laundry in juniper berry detergent. Have a little gin with your softener? Haymitch doesn't even say hello, just glares at Gale through beady, bloodshot eyes.

"I paged you on your cuff to call me, Hawthorne. Don't you ever use your ruddy phone?" he snaps.

"Let me guess, you forgot about the meeting too," Gale mutters while he scratches the hard to reach spot on his back with a pencil Madge sharpened. He makes sure to use the eraser end this time so he doesn't end up with a second piece of graphite lodged under his jigsaw skin. That's all he needs – to fuel the rumor mill Junius started about his shirts.

"You're not going to any meeting," Haymitch grouses. "That's what I wanted to tell you."

Gale grunts and tosses the pencil back in the cup on his desk. "That's good news. Why the change in plans?"

"Heavensbee changed the plans," Haymitch answers cryptically.

"Wait. What changed?" Gale asks, sitting up straighter in his chair, starting to pick up on a growing sense of foreboding in the back of his mind.

Haymitch rolls his eyes like Gale's being particularly dense. He clears his throat.

"Pack your bags, Hawthorne," he replies loud enough for the whole Underground to hear. "You're done in this agency. These figures are still wrong. You've allowed the processing of forged documents to slip by unnoticed. Hell, you're probably leading the smuggling ring yourself!"

"What?" Gale stares at Haymitch in open disbelief, trying to read him. Did someone not send him a memo? Gale opens the top drawer of his desk and stares down at the fritzed screen of his communicuff.

"Heavensbee has had it with your incompetence," Haymitch growls. "And you better believe there will be an inquest about the way you spent your time in the woods."

Gale sits frozen in his chair for all of thirty seconds. He's a quick thinker (where certainly blonds aren't concerned) and he should have seen this coming. He didn't. Luckily, he's fast on his feet.

He gets up from the desk and pushes Haymitch out of his doorway, into the general office in front of the other employees. Haymitch stumbles backward, but regains his balance with the help of the copy machine.

"What are you talking about?" Gale demands. "I didn't fix any numbers. I didn't authorize those invoices. You _know_ I didn't."

Junius, red of face and puffy of chest, says, "This is an outrage, accusing Mr. Hawthorne of such a thing."

Haymitch's eyes narrow as he takes in Ilona's horrified expression and Terry's startled face, as well as Junius's ire. He throws the report down at Gale's feet. "So, you have your employees in cahoots with you. In fact, as soon as Madge gets here she's fired too."

Gale's stomach drops to his ankles. "What?" he gapes.

"You heard," Haymitch growls, giving Gale a shrewd look. He looks pleased with himself, like he got the exact reaction he wanted. "She gets the can too, for helping you fix these numbers."

Gale's blood runs cold. What the hell is Haymitch doing? Getting fired would finish Madge off for good. Gale never intended for her to get dragged into this and Haymitch is taking things too far by including her.

"That's idiotic," Gale says through gritted teeth. "Madge wasn't even here at the time. I wrote the entire report myself."

"Oh yeah?" Haymitch blusters. "Where was she then? I told her to stay here."

Irritation rises up within Gale as this farce about the report spirals out of control. "I sent her home," he confesses. "The report didn't require two people. If you were any kind of supervisor, you'd see that."

"I'll tell you what I see: You wanted to cook the books without detection," Haymitch accuses with satisfied triumph, ignoring the slight on his skills as a team leader. "Confirmed! I want you out of this office within the hour."

"Haymitch—," Gale growls.

"Do I need to call for security to escort you out?" Haymitch threatens, looking like he'd relish the opportunity.

"No," Gale grudgingly replies, not giving Haymitch the satisfaction.

"Fine." The older man barrels back into his own office and slams the door.

Gale stares at the black lettering on the glass portion of Haymitch's door, reeling, unwilling to look at the stricken faces of his employees. He's sorry they had to be an unwilling part of this scene. Especially Ilona and Terry. He doesn't really give two straws about Junius.

And then there's the unexpected rush of emotion he experienced when Haymitch threatened Madge's position. It wasn't supposed to go that far – he didn't expect that he'd care about her well-being, but with his newly-acquired knowledge about her circumstances and his part in them he can't help feeling responsible. What's comes next and what did he just avert for Madge's sake?

"M-Mr. Hawthrone?" Ilona stammers. "What's happening?"

Gale grits his teeth. "If Madge calls, tell her not to come in," is his only reply.

He retreats into his own little space, or what used to be his space, and collapses into his chair. He's just glad that Madge wasn't here to witness Haymitch's outburst. She has enough on her plate without Haymitch fabricating accusations about her. In fact, it's nearly 9:30 and he wonders if she's going to call in sick again.

Gale makes a pretense of gathering his personal affects, grabbing random items and shoving them into a discarded cardboard box. He takes all the pens and pencils and notepads - not that he has as much cause to use them anymore. But it won't hurt to stock up. It looks like he'll have plenty of time to consider what he'll write to Madge.

He's half-tempted to pick up the phone and call her place to make sure she stays put when the sound of Ilona's voice calling out a cautious greeting alerts him to her arrival.

Seconds later, Madge knocks softly on his door. She's visibly unwell when she enters. Gale notices that her eyes are glassy and downcast like she's avoiding any direct light. Her hands tremble even though she's holding onto her purse tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. A ribbon holds back her hair from her face and shoulders, but it hasn't been brushed recently. But she still smells good, he realizes. Her scent subtly fills the office. He wonders when he started to differentiate her scent from all the other ones. Then he cusses himself out for being stupid. Girls generally smell good; it's just the way it is. Nothing special.

Gale skirts around the side of the desk, gripping her elbow and insisting that Madge sit down, which she refuses. "You shouldn't have come in today. I told you there wasn't any rush," he scolds.

Madge takes a shaky breath and blinks down at his hand on her elbow then up at him. "I know I'm late…I needed to talk to you -" she looks at the desk and the box of things Gale's collecting. "What are you doing?"

Gale rocks back on his heels, trying to figure out how he'll play this. For Madge, the lite version is probably best. He lets go of her elbow. He takes a seat on the corner of his desk, hoping she'll follow his example and sit down before she keels over.

He clears his throat. "Well, I guess you finally got what you wanted," he says, going for a jovial tone.

Madge winces. "What are you talking about?"

"Plutarch canned me," he tells her matter-of-factly. "Haymitch will be around in a moment to tell you the good news."

Madge blanches, her faded lips parting in surprise and disbelief. She swallows and seems to sway. "Gale, don't joke about that. Can't you see I'm not well," she says pitifully. "This room is going round and round."

She grips the back of the chair, which propels Gale off the desk in case she's going to be sick. "Madge—"

Gale puts his hand on the small of her back to guide her into the seat when Plutarch Heavensbee himself arrives in a pinstripe suit. He raps once on the open door, then lets himself in. Gale hadn't expected to see _him_ this morning now that he's not participating in the meeting. A renewed flash of irritation shoots through him as the situation spirals out of his control.

"Oh, you're still here," Plutarch says coldly to Gale, who crosses his arms and scowls. Then Plutarch turns to Madge, still standing and looking confused on top of unwell. Heavensbee doesn't seem to notice.

"Miss Undersee, correct?" asks in his usual clipped tone. "The intern?"

Madge's lips part but she seems incapable of answering the question. Fearing Haymitch's earlier insinuation that Madge conspired with him, Gale steps in on her behalf.

"Listen, Heavensbee, no matter what Haymitch told you, Madge had nothing to do with the report," he says. "Don't take her job, too."

Madge's mouth pops open. "What do you mean take my job?" she exclaims.

Plutarch's lips curl as he meets Gale's glare. "I haven't the pleasure of understanding you, Mr. Hawthorne. Nobody is taking Miss Undersee's job away from her."

Gale pauses for a confused second. "But Haymitch said—"

Speak of the devil. Haymitch chooses that moment to add his bulk to the body count in the small office, squashing Madge and Gale into the desk to make room.

"Sorry, Plutarch, I told him to get out," Haymitch barks as he barges in.

Gale stares him down, angry that Haymitch toyed with him by threatening Madge's job. But Haymitch can't be bullied.

"This doesn't have to happen right now," Gale mutters. "Can't you see Madge isn't up for this?"

"Up for what?" she asks sharply, feeling slighted, alarmed and ignored.

"Quit buying time," Haymitch says. "You're done here."

Gale seethes. This has to be the worst possible time for them to sack him. He needs the close proximity to Madge, but how can he explain that to Haymitch when they're making a show of blaming him for smuggling?

_Sorry, Haymitch, this isn't convenient for my love life. Could you try again next month?_

"I'm going," Gale growls, reaching for his box. He tosses in the packet of crackers and his water bottle for emphasis.

"Haymitch, what is this about?" Madge demands.

Her voice cracks, but maybe only Gale notices. Plutarch and Haymitch fill up the space in the office, looking cold and unyielding. Gale curses them out in his mind, not because he cares about how this will affect him, but because he can see Madge struggling just to keep her countenance. There's no reason for them to upset her like this.

Haymitch crosses his thick arms over his chest, speaking to Madge. "All I know is that ever since _he_ showed up," he jabs his thumb at Gale, "more supplies were lost to guerillas than before. More supplies, bigger supplies. So far we can't pin any of it directly to him, but it doesn't take a genius to see that he's guilty." He rounds on Gale. "And you better call a lawyer!"

Madge clutches Haymitch's arm, looking paler than pale. "Don't be silly." She glances at Plutarch, then back at Haymitch to see if they're truly serious. "Why would Gale want to support loyalists? He was a Mockingjay soldier, for goodness sake."

"It is, unfortunately, a convincing alibi on the _surface_, Miss Undersee," says Plutarch, sounding pompous and aloof. "Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this intrigue."

Madge winces again, looking anything but comforted. She releases her hold on Haymitch's arm and wraps her own around herself. Gale doesn't blame her. Everyone's so convincing, even he's starting to believe he could be in trouble. He wants to tell her everything will be all right, but he can't with the door wide open and the director of the agency and the supervisor standing right there.

"It's not an alibi," Gale argues with grim confidence for Madge's sake. "You'll never pin anything on me."

"No, I'll leave that to the firing squad, traitor," Haymitch grunts.

Gale gnashes his teeth.

Plutarch turns to Madge. "Welcome to your new promotion. As soon as Mr. Hawthorne clears out his personal effects," he allows himself one sour look in Gale's direction, "you can move in."

That's when the reality of the situation comes crashing down on Madge. Unfortunately, the remark is too much for her flagging constitution. And hitting her head on the corner of Gale's desk as she passed out didn't help.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>


	13. Psychosomatic Symptoms

**Chapter 13**

**Psychosomatic Symptoms**

* * *

><p>On Saturday, Gale has to order himself to quit staring at the door of the Level 9 flat and ring the bell. He's not sure why his palms are clammy. For all he knows, this could be the shortest visit of his life – just long enough for Madge or her father to kick him out on the curb.<p>

If there was a curb – which, there isn't.

He must be nuts for thinking a visit is a good idea. He can blame Peeta and Katniss later, if it helps. It won't though.

_All right, Hawthorne_, _you've been survived a whipping, firebombing, and a war…you can handle Madge Undersee. _And no matter what Bristel said over beer last night, his balls are not in her desk drawer.

He's just got to know a few things.

Mayor Undersee opens the door, looking older and more stooped than Gale remembers from his brief episode as a stalker. Gale remembered the mayor being taller, like him. Funny how little the pale wisps of white-blond hair and faded blue eyes don't much resemble Madge's gold and cornflower coloring. She must look more like her mother. But Gale can't exactly remember ever seeing the First Lady of District 12.

"Can I help you?" Undersee asks hesitantly while Gale's lost in his observations. The man looks surprised to find Gale or anyone standing outside of his door, which makes Gale wonder if they get visitors much, or if the folks from 12 who still live down here have forgotten the Undersees altogether.

"Er...Mayor Undersee, sir." Gale stammers. He scratches the back of his head, a nervous tic he developed. "Afternoon."

The old man holds himself a little straighter, like the memory of the word gives him back a little of his old dignity. He scrutinizes Gale's face as if trying to place him in his memory. Finally, he says, "Just _Mr_. Undersee now, son."

"Right." Gale shakes his head a little to clear it. A last minute inspiration makes him hold out his hand. Best be polite, he figures. "I'm Gale Hawthorne…also from Twelve."

Mr. Undersee shakes his hand, and if he notices any moisture on Gale's palms, he doesn't mention it. Gale's grateful for that. He doesn't need his case of nerves pointed out to him. Mr. Undersee's already studying him carefully.

"What can I do for you, young man?" he prompts.

Gale shifts guiltily on his feet, like he's doing something wrong. Even though they're not in District 12 anymore, he suddenly feels like some snot-nosed Seam kid trespassing on the Mayor's property, presuming that he has the right to talk to his daughter. He wonders if he should have worn a suit instead of his old corduroy trousers and cotton t-shirt. Good thing he mucked out the dirt caked on the bottom of his boots. First time he's seen the rubber treads…probably since he bought them.

"I came to see Madge," Gale says with an unusual amount of meekness. "If she's up for it."

Mr. Undersee's tufty gray eyebrows rise in surprise. He looks over his shoulder for a bit, like he's weighing the pros and cons of letting a strange young man into his home – or possibly gauging Madge's mood. Then his lips quirk up, the first sign that he's related to Madge. Gale usually sees that smile right before she does something she knows he won't like.

"Well, I'll see. Just step into the kitchen here," he tells Gale, rather pleased. "She's been a little under the weather lately, but I'm sure she'd enjoy a visit from a friend."

Gale stops short and almost gets the door closed on him. _She doesn't talk about work with her dad._At least not in depth, or Mr. Undersee would know about his daughter's rivalry with him – and that she will most likely feel quite displeased to see him. As he steps into the kitchen, he mulls over this new insight. He's even more curious about the inner workings of the Undersee household.

Mr. Undersee disappears into the living room. A wall blocks the kitchen from the back of the apartment, but he hears whispering and tunes it out in favor of observing his whereabouts. He expected more from an ex-mayor's digs. After the colorful tour-de-force of the Mellark's dwelling, Madge's home underwhelms Gale. It's clean, but threadbare and well…beige. Some old newspapers are stacked on the corner of the table of the otherwise empty table. A pile of clean dishes dries on the sideboard on top of a faded towel. Only an emergency hotline magnet decorates the fridge. He notices the sink has a slow drain, too.

Mr. Undersee returns looking confused, but his face is set and stubborn. "Why don't you join Madge in the living room? I'm on my way to run some errands."

Leaving him alone with Madge? Gale sort of counted on having Mr. Undersee there as an umpire. Alone, Madge and Gale could end up saying anything to each other – they usually did – for the worst.

"Are you sure she won't mind?" Gale asks, hushing his voice. "I can come back…"

"Nonsense." Mr. Undersee pats Gale on the shoulder. "Go cheer her up."

Gale doubts he'll have that effect on Madge. But Mr. Undersee abandons him before he can explain the situation – and so the only course is forward. He steps hesitantly around the dividing wall, wishing he had a hat or something he could worry in his hands just to give them something to do. He finds Madge lying stretched out on the couch instead of in her bedroom, which is a relief. Her cheeks are pink, so maybe she's thinking the same thing. Or judging by how she's clutching the top of her housecoat, she's embarrassed that Gale caught her in her pajamas.

Madge looks kind of small tucked under a blanket, her back supported by some pillows. He's never noticed before, since she preferred to be up in his face to say something sharp while wearing those pointy, black cheaters on her feet. And seeing her with her hair down reminds him of the girl he used to sell strawberries to in District 12. He hadn't thought much of her back then, since she'd always seemed out of reach to a guy in the Seam. _All that's different now._ Gale berates himself for that thought. She hates him, so he probably had a better chance with her as a miner than he has now that he's sort of fired.

And then he winces, remembering her particular pronouncement at the Broken Oar. An insignificant miner, she'd called him. _Hell's_ _teeth_. Why does he volunteer to put himself in these situations with women?

"Afternoon," he says with his usual glum laconicism.

Madge looks up slowly from staring at the end of the blanket where her feet form a tent in the fabric.

"Hello, Gale," she replies, choking on his name. "I wasn't expecting to see you…here…at my apartment."

Gale clears his throat. He decides to go for a fatherly tone. "Well, after you passed out and hit your head on my former desk, I felt a little concerned. So, I came to check up on you." Then he quickly adds, "I hope you don't mind." Giving her ample opportunity to kick him out.

"You didn't have to do that," she says with stiff politeness. "Um, you can sit down…" she gestures toward her father's recliner across the room, but Gale decides that won't do.

"Just a sec."

He goes back into the kitchen and takes a chair from the table. That way he can sit by the sofa, next to her, which is probably the last thing Madge wants. Keeping him on the other side of the room is a good strategy, and all the more reason for him to thwart it.

"Anyway…" he says, sitting down. "I feel sort of responsible for all this."

Madge gapes at him. "You? Oh no. It's not your fault at all. The reason is entirely unconnected to you," she says firmly.

She says things with such conviction that Gale doesn't trust himself to reply. It must be nice for her to be so sure about things, especially when she's wrong. He moves on to another subject.

"I figured the shock on Friday might have been too much for you," he remarks.

"It did shock me," she admits, "But I'm not usually that easy to shake."

"How's your head?"

Madge's fingers gingerly probe the spot just above her ear where she hit the desk. Her wavy hair hides the bump and bruises pretty well. "It's going down," she tells him. "My pride, however…I never did thank you for getting me to the infirmary."

"Don't mention it," Gale waves off her thanks. "If I hadn't had the stupid box in my hands, I might have caught you. Then we could've avoided the ER. Have you seen a doctor yet?"

She blinks. "For what? I didn't have a concussion."

"Well, you just sort of keeled over after calling in sick for a couple of days," he points out, making a diving motion with his hand. "That's not normal."

Madge adjusts the blankets over her legs, blushing. "No, I don't need to see a doctor. She'll tell me there's nothing wrong with me," she says. "My problem is more…psychological."

Gale nods. "Oh, well, if that's all it is, just psychological—"

"_Just_ psychological?" she scoffs. "Gale, honestly. Some of our biggest battles are in our own heads."

Gale shrugs indifferently. "There's not much going on in my head to worry about. But, uh, good luck with yours."

"I'll be all right in a day or two," she sniffs irritably.

"You better. You've got that shiny new promotion starting Monday," he reminds her.

That causes a crack in Madge's haughty veneer. She struggles to sit up more. "Listen, Gale, about that – I feel awful –"

She goes completely still when Gale reaches around her to fluff up her pillows. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his shoulder. Her perfume – how had he not noticed before? It smells different on her than on the pink paper she uses – warmer, smoother, mixed with notes of something else he can't quite define but remembers from Friday in his office. The kind of scent that makes him want to lean in closer. Unfortunately, she'd probably bite his nose.

"Um…" she mumbles against his shoulder, having lost track of what she wanted to say.

Gale sits back. "Forget it," he says. He doubts she'll listen, since she never has before.

True to form, she argues, "I can't. I know we haven't gotten along, but losing a job is bad enough." She worries a strand of her hair around her fingers and tugs at it, like that will relieve some of her anxiety. "But to be falsely accused to aiding _loyalists_ isn't something I'd wish on…well…"

Gale's eyebrow arches. "On your worst enemy?"

Madge puckers her lips like she's bitten something sour. "I didn't say that, Gale."

He shrugs. "Don't worry about that right now," he advises. "I wasn't cut out for that line of work anyway. Too fancy. And they can accuse me all they want, but it won't come to anything."

Madge's hands ball up in the blanket on her lap. "But what will you do?" she asks. His lack of concern bewilders her.

The fact that she's concerned about his lack of concern gives him hope that maybe she's not as cold to him as she acts.

"I have some backup assets," he says, which is true, he just can't tell her what they are, "until I figure out the next step."

"You seem to be taking all of this rather well," she says with a hint of an accusation. "I'd be a wreck."

That's obvious, given how she already clocked her head on his desk when _he'd_ been fired. He'd hate to see what she'd do if it had been her own.

Gale just shrugs. "I'm a survivor."

Madge pauses, as if triggered by memories. She smiles slightly. "Yes. I guess you always were. But there's no Hob here."

"What? Oh." Gale scratches his jaw. "Yeah, probably best to avoid any black market activity while I'm under an investigation."

The conversation lags at the mention of black market dealings and Gale looks around the room. One of Peeta's paintings hangs in the center of the wall. There's a clock on the little table by her father's chair and a stack of books. He spots some polka-dotted flowers on the table, wondering who she could have gotten them from. They're definitely not from _him_. For the first time, he wonders if she's been writing letters to anyone else who might have responded to that ad. The idea's like having a burr stuck between his sock and his boot, even though Peeta and Katniss assured him she hadn't dated.

"From your boyfriend?" he asks, pointing to the glitter-encrusted vase.

Madge wrinkles her nose. "Oh, no, those are from Junius," she tells him. "He had them sent to me last night."

Gale cringes, too. He should have figured something so gaudy would come from Goldilocks. "You strike me as more of a wildflower kind of girl. I'm surprised you didn't send these Capitol hybrids right back," he gripes.

Madge wonders how he could possibly presume to make the pronouncement on her preferences. "I didn't want to be rude," she replies airily. "It was a lovely gesture."

That gets his goat. If someone with as much taste and sense as Madge can't stand Gale, how could she ever stomach someone as smarmy as Trivet?

"You don't want to be rude to a tool like Trivet, but you don't mind treating me like a dog?" he grouses. He can't begin to explain how messed up that is.

Madge bats her eyelashes, and though she still looks pale, he can see her eyes brighten the way they always do when she's about to serve him a line. "Well, you certainly acted like one sometimes, Gale," she chirps.

Gale humphs. "Your wit isn't suffering, is it?" he mutters, reaching for another topic since he's not here to bicker with her. "How's _Uncommon Sense_ coming along?"

The book is sitting on the coffee table next to a box of tissues and an open bottle of ibuprofen. He opens the cover and nearly drops the book when he sees a discolored and broken buttercup pressed between the verso and title page. He gently picks it up.

"Buttercups. I was right. You do prefer wildflowers."

Madge looks stricken and that's when he realizes that this is not the flower she brought to the restaurant with her, but his. Some of the petals are broken like the one he mangled outside of the Broken Oar. She must have found it when she left and kept it.

Guilt stabs through him, twisting his insides like a fork. He forgot that she doesn't think of her letter-writing friend as the hated Gale Hawthorne, but some anonymous man she's in love with…who rejected her without giving her the courtesy of telling her face to face. It's very confusing to Gale. He feels a bit of hatred directed at his paper self for hurting her.

And that just doesn't make one bit of sense to Gale. This woman single-handedly reduced him to a mass of confusion.

"Please put that back," she pleads, half recoiling from the book and half reaching for it.

Gale closes the book only too happily. He doesn't much like the reminder of how badly he behaved. And he honestly didn't realize until now – watching her fall to pieces on her couch at the sight of a mere flower – just how much power he had to hurt her. It's not the kind of power that makes a man respect himself.

"These were always my favorite," he tells her. "They grew in the—"

"In the Meadow. Yes." She looks visibly relieved that the buttercup is out of sight, though her eyes glisten with moisture. "They were one of the few beautiful things in Twelve."

"That's right," he says, pleasantly surprised to hear that she feels the same. "I haven't thought about Twelve too much in the last few years. It's funny that the most beautiful spot was on the Seam side."

For Gale, that could mean so many different things. He'll always associate the Seam with the break in the fence, his days in the forest or at the Hob, the Meadow, and Katniss.

"It's not all that surprising," Madge murmurs. "Dichotomies often sit closely together. Good and evil, love and hate, joy and pain. I think the Seam contained a lot of beauty, like the circle dances on holidays or the will of the families to survive despite so much hardship. Twelve lacked the sophistication of the Capitol, but I'll always think of it as so much more beautiful…"

Gale grips the bottom of his chair as the first flush rushes over him. _That_ is the voice of the woman in his letters, the first time he's recognized it in Madge, and he has to resist the urge to pluck her off the couch and crush her to him like a friend he's never met but misses. The instinct slams into him out of nowhere, taking him by surprise.

Madge stares down at her hands with self-conscious chagrin, misreading his expression. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Someone like you probably doesn't waste time thinking about things like that."

"You don't think I'm the type?" he says through a choke.

She holds her palms up. "You always seemed so pragmatic."

"I always had to survive. Those needs came first, but I still wondered about the big picture." He remembers that triangle she kept writing about with all the different levels of needs. It amuses him to finally talk about something they've written about –he wonders if she'll notice. "Thinking's not just for the wealthy, Madge."

Madge's mouth opens, then closes again, like she's about to say one thing and decides she'd better say another.

"I didn't mean it that way, Gale," she says wearily. She digs her fingers into her temples. "I'm not feeling well and I certainly don't want to argue with you."

"Funny thing is, I don't want to argue either," he tells her. He takes a deep breath, hoping what he's about to say doesn't sound as rehearsed as it is. "Madge, uh, we started off on the wrong foot. I wonder if I hadn't gotten your job, if we might have been friends."

Madge stares hard at her feet with a blank, somewhat startled expression on her face.

"Well, that's hard to say," she says eventually, blinking – which he has learned is a tell-tale sign of confusion and discomfort.

Gale scoots to the edge of his chair, till his knees almost brush the couch cushion. "I know you said you didn't care to scratch my surface, but we could call a truce," he continues. She winces when he quotes her, but she lets him continue. "There's no point in bickering anymore now that everyone's in his or her proper place."

Madge bites the inside of her lip. "Is that what you came here to tell me?" she asks.

Gale nods. It's close enough to the truth.

Madge sighs, trying to adjust her thoughts. "You know," she says wistfully, "I'm not sure I know how to make you out sometimes."

Gale leans back to give them both some space. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I didn't think you had a diplomatic bone in your body," she admits candidly. "You surprise me."

Gale grins, because he's only diplomatic on rare occasions, but that doesn't mean it's lost on him. Maybe he has learned a thing or two from Peeta.

"People don't belong in boxes, Madge," he tells her. "Stop trying to fit me into one."

Her lips hint at a smile. "Why Gale, that's well expressed."

"It happens sometimes." Gale scratches his head. Then he says, "Look, I'm sorry about what happened at the Broken Oar, and even before that. I've been a jerk, but I'll accept a ceasefire if you will."

"I'm sorry too," Madge murmurs. "That's what I wanted to tell you on Friday before…well…I think a ceasefire would be acceptable."

"Should we shake?" Gale spits in his hand and holds it out for her to take.

Madge shudders and tries inching deeper into her pillows away from his hand. "I'll just take your word for it," she croaks.

Gale shrugs and wipes his hand on his trousers, choking down a laugh at the cringe on her face. "All the most binding pacts were made by swapping spit. It's the Seam way," he teases. She starts to look green. "It's part of the beauty of the place. But maybe later."

Madge sniffs. "In town we used signatures."

"Fancy—"

Gale cuts off when he hears the front door open and footsteps patter through the kitchen. Mr. Undersee must be home.

"Madge, I have something for you," Mr. Undersee calls around the wall, making Madge startle. "Oh, you're still here," he says pleasantly, when he spots Gale. He gives Madge a measuring look. "I hope you are having a pleasant time catching up?"

"Where have you been?" Madge less than subtly evades answering the question.

"Here and there. I got some new books from the library—oh, I stopped by the post office." Mr. Undersee absent-mindedly pats the front pocket on his coat.

Madge leans forward with new-found energy, staring so intensely at her father's coat that Gale wonders if she can see through it. His hands feel clammy again as his anticipation rises.

"Anything?" she asks starkly.

Mr. Undersee pulls out an envelope from his coat pocket and gives it a little wave. "Perhaps."

The effect of the letter on Madge's countenance is immediate. Her lips look redder and her eyes bluer. Instead of slumping against her pillows, her shoulders and back straighten out. Everything about her responds with invigoration. Gale stares at the transformation from the thin, withdrawn girl he'd come to know the past week and the flushed, live wire in front of him now. He hoped he'd be able to see the effect his letter would have on her, though the chances were small that his visit would coincide. Lucky for him, Mr. Undersee decided to take a walk. And even if she makes him leave now, he'll be able to at least see a flicker of recognition on her face once she's got the envelope in her hand.

"You see, he hasn't run off," says Mr. Undersee glumly, teasing Madge (and Gale) by studying the letter instead of handing it over. "No mud."

"Mud?" Gale blurts out, then clamps his mouth shut.

"Don't be silly, Dad," Madge scolds, forgetting Gale completely. "Can I have it, please?" She holds out her hand, reaching as far as she can.

Mr. Undersee takes pity on her and hands it over. "I'll just be in my room reading, if you need me," he says. Mr. Undersee turns to Gale. "Nice to see you, young man."

"Likewise." Gale nods once, just polite enough to give Mr. Undersee a second of eye contact before studying Madge again. The effect that he's indirectly having on her is absolutely fascinating. More than he thought.

The letter, he hoped, would cheer her up. But Madge clutches the envelope like it's a life raft _and _a bomb about to blow up in her face.

Madge pulls her fingers through her long hair. They're trembling and restless, eager to tear open the envelope. Gale knows the feeling. Her eyes glance fleetingly at him, then back at the envelope.

"It was nice of you to stop in, Gale. I'm probably boring you to death," she says distractedly, when Mr. Undersee disappears behind his door. "You must have so many other things to do right now…"

Gale just gets more comfortable in the chair. He won't be cheated out of seeing this, if he can manage it.

"Oh, it's no trouble. I don't have much else going on…you know, being unemployed on the weekend," he tells her, pointing at the envelope. "Go ahead and read your letter, if you want."

Madge blinks, casting him a furtive glance, but is clearly too emotionally agitated to think straight or worry about manners. He likes that he has that effect on her.

"If you're sure you won't mind…," but she's already opening the envelope.

She's barely read the first line when her face lights up a few more watts. She looks just like she did that day at Katniss's, before she saw him sitting at their dining room table. Her eyes move rapidly from line to line, too fast to really read, he thinks. She bites the knuckle on her index finger and smiles over something.

Gale folds his arms over his chest, almost hugging himself. "You look like a new woman," he observes.

Madge doesn't even look up, waving his words away as she continues to read. "Don't be silly."

Some parts make her smile fade and a line to crease between her eyebrows. But then she shakes her head and smiles all over again. She laughs outright at something he wrote, which he hopes is in the right places.

"From a good friend?" he asks when she reaches the last page.

Madge sighs happily. "A very good friend. And everything's perfectly all right now." She folds and unfolds the letter, then gives him a humorous smile. "You know, if I weren't feeling so happy, I'd be very annoyed with you."

"You usually are," he points out dryly. "What have I done this time?"

"You spoiled my date last week." She shakes the letter at him. "I wasn't so wrong when I asked you not to sit at my table. This gentleman did come to the restaurant. He looked in the window, saw us together, and misunderstood. He left after that feeling quite cast down." She pauses thoughtfully, adding, "I think this may be a sign that he can be quick-tempered occasionally."

Gale's eyebrows rise. He hadn't expected her to pick up details about _him_ from the letter.

"What?" he asks, getting back to the part that made her frown. "Your friend thought we were interested in each other?"

Madge laughs like it's an inside joke they've always shared. "He must have. Listen." She holds up the first page. "'_Tell me and be frank. I think you owe it to me. Who was this very attractive young man? He's just the type women fall for.'_ Ha, silly man. But then, he'd have no way of knowing that I'd never possibly fall for you."

Gale shifts uncomfortably in his chair, hardly expecting this letter to be quoted back to him, much less Madge's complete denial of a _scrap_ of attraction between them. He's got his work cut out, that's certain.

"I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble," he apologizes. "I'll try to keep my animal magnetism to myself."

Madge makes herself comfortable against her pillows again. "It's all right. I'll straighten it out. It won't hurt him to be a little jealous."

Gale doesn't like the sound of that one bit – in fact, he's starting to feel a little jealous of himself as he watches her beam over his doppelganger. It makes him feel a little cranky.

"He doesn't seem like much of a man, this friend of yours," Gale remarks, putting himself down. "He's afraid to come over to a table when another man is there."

Madge gives him a look full of reproach. "Gale, he wasn't afraid. He's tactful and probably a bit hurt." She sighs. "It's difficult to explain a man like him to a man like you."

Gale's face spasms like he's bitten a lemon. "Oh," he chokes.

He wonders where she got that tactful bit from his letters. That's a word he'd never apply to himself. Around this point, Gale feels he's only going to dig himself into an unscalable hole if he doesn't leave. Especially since he has some sort of twitch developing whenever she starts comparing him to himself.

"I'll spare us both the explanation," he says, getting up. "I just remembered that I'm supposed to meet my friend Bristel."

Madge nods, accepting the fib. "I see. The one with all the twins."

Gale wonders how she knows that, then remembers belatedly that the waitress talking about Bristel's family.

"Er, yes. Well, I'm glad you're starting to feel better." He holds his hand out to shake hers again, but thinks better of it and lets his hand fall. "Good luck with your…boyfriend."

"Thank you," she replies. "I hope everything works out for you."

"Me too," Gale mutters to himself. Once he figures out what "everything" is, and how it' supposed to work.

Gale shows himself out after putting his chair back in the kitchen. He has no idea where he's going to go, so he strikes off on a blind course around the Underground. Walking until his legs hurt, thinking. He hoped to find the answers to some questions at Madge's place, and he did, but they only left him with more questions.

…

Madge sinks languidly back into the couch when Gale leaves, feeling lighter than she has in days. She has her letter. Gale doesn't hate her for getting his job, and they actually had a decent conversation. The likelihood of it ever happening again isn't very good now that they no longer work together, but she found it almost pleasant. Except for when he found the buttercup, ripping off the emotional scab she'd been forming. And that other moment she thought he might jump at her, when she was spouting opinions about the Seam. A look had definitely been in his eyes that she couldn't define. Not that she'd ever find out what it had been. He'll probably leave the Underground altogether like he did years ago now that he's out of a job. That's all right, she thinks. At least their short interaction with one another ended on a positive note.

Everything feels right in the world and in its proper place until Mr. Undersee sits down in his armchair and spoils the mood by bringing up Gale in an unpleasant light.

Mr. Undersee puts on his reading glasses, but doesn't make a pretense of reading. They allow him to see his daughter's face better. "You never told me how handsome your boss is," he remarks.

Madge rolls her eyes and sighs. "He's not my boss anymore, Daddy. Remember? And under that dark and handsome façade, he's not very attractive at all."

She feels guilty for a moment afterward, remembering that she just agreed to a ceasefire. Well, it'll take practice.

"Yes, I can see he's the nasty sort who would never visit a sick colleague to wish her well, even though he'd just been sacked and had his job given away to said colleague." Mr. Undersee adds, with the quirk of a tufted eyebrow, "I have no opinion of him."

Madge rolls her eyes. "I promise you his behavior today came as a complete fluke."

Although she wonders if that's true. When Gale said she might have thought differently of him under different circumstances, she didn't allow him to see how true that was. Of course, she'd been sixteen at the time and there's no accounting for taste.

Mr. Undersee picks up a book and studies the spine. "Well, he certainly cheered you up."

Cheered her up? Had Gale done that? No. What a silly idea.

"That was the letter, Dad," she reminds him. "Gale and I are not the sort to cheer one another up. We've done nothing but bicker for months and months."

Simply because he walked in here and apologized didn't make them friends. They _did_ meet under bad circumstances, like Gale had said. He said some things to her that she couldn't readily forget, and she knows she said similar things to him. He'll have to prove that a ceasefire truly exists between them before she'll believe it. Not that it matters. She has her letters and she mustn't waste her energy thinking about changeable Gale Hawthorne – who may or may not be a decent human being.

"And they think I'm the one who needs medication," her father grumbles. He begins reading – or rather, turning the pages over to look preoccupied.

Madge frowns, realizing what her father has taken into his head. He must be developing some misguided illusion about Gale - and that Gale or she might develop an interest in the other. To make matters worse, her father sounds like he approves of the idea. Or at least, approves of anyone who's here in the flesh, rather than on the other end of the post office.

Well, Gale Hawthorne might be here in the flesh, but that doesn't change how she feels about her friend.

"Dad, before you get the wrong impression, I want to remind you that back in Twelve you would have had a conniption if I'd brought Gale home."

For a moment, her father resembles a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar – slightly unsettled that Madge figured out his guilty ideas so quickly. But then his diplomatic expression returns. He stares at her over the rim of his glasses.

"Back in Twelve, you were only sixteen or seventeen," he explains, "a father has a conniption no matter who his daughter brings home at that age. He could own all the gold in District 1 and I still would not have liked him." He turns to a new page. "But this young man seems to like you."

How on earth could her father be so intelligent, yet so misguided and old-fashioned? Simply because a guy turns up on the doorstep doesn't mean he's romantically inclined toward her. And nobody could be less inclined than Gale.

"He feels nothing whatsoever for me," she argues. "He made that quite clear on _another_ occasion. And I hardly think that one short visit, of which you witnessed only thirty seconds, proves anything."

Mr. Undersee suffers a temporary setback and frowns. His eyes cast around the room for something to help him. "Well, what about this fellow who sent you the flowers?" He points to the sparkly vase.

"Junius? Oh, Dad. No." Madge takes a deep breath, grasping for patience. "You have to face the facts. I think I'm falling in love with this man writing me letters, even if I haven't met him. You can't keep hoping that I'll turn around and find someone else."

"I don't see why that is. And I don't need to know him," says Mr. Undersee gravely, "to see that he's treated you poorly already." Madge starts to interrupt, but he holds up his hand. "Call it what you want, Margaret, but I'm the one who had to stand by and watch your heart break when he didn't come."

Madge sits speechless. She hadn't realized what sort of toll her experience had on her father. She can't blame him for not trusting a stranger, but at the same time, Madge feels she knows best. Hadn't the letter explained the whole situation to her satisfaction?

"And you think Gale Hawthorne or Junius Trivet are better options for me?" she asks bitterly. He couldn't have found less-likely candidates.

"Let me ask you this? Did your friend reschedule another date in this letter?" Madge grudgingly shakes her head. Mr. Undersee looks satisfied and exhales sharply through his nose. "So, he simply made his excuses."

Mr. Undersee turns back to his book, dismissing further debate, which angers Madge. Her cheeks flush and her eyes spark.

"He asked for an explanation," she says in his defense. "He misunderstood and he was too tactful—"

Mr. Undersee closes the book patiently, setting it on his lap to give his daughter his full attention.

"A man doesn't worry about tact much when another man encroaches on the woman he's in love with, I can tell you," he says to her with quiet solemnity. "That man's a coward."

Madge blinks back the tears starting to well up behind her eyes. "You're worse than Gale, sometimes. Why are you telling me these things?"

"Because I don't want you getting your hopes up."

"I think it's a little late for that, Dad," she mumbles, picking up her letter, blanket and pillows to take them back into her bedroom where she can hide behind the closed door.

…

Gale never meant to meet with Bristel, so he trods back to his place with his hands shoved deep into his corduroy trousers and his head down, thinking.

He wanted to see if he'd bungled the whole thing after he hadn't written to explain his non-appearance as her date. The letter Madge received today was just a means to stall for time while he devises a real strategy, and to see where Madge stood so he could settle on his objective. The objective: wheedling his way to the part of Madge that loves him. Whichever him that is – both of him. Damn. There's only one him, but she doesn't know that. Gale needs the name of that nut job doctor – Dr. Fabulous or something Latin like that – Katniss and Peeta have been seeing. He's starting to feel like he's got split personalities.

The trouble is, with this whole confounded letter situation, he can't just ask Madge out. She'd turn him down, thinking she's already bound to her friend. Gale would have to undeceive her, but the truth could blow up in his face. With his family's background, he'd rather avoid anything explosive.

So how does he work his angle?

Gale enters his apartment to hear the last jingle on his phone before it goes into voicemail. Haymitch's rough voice demands him to pick up. He answers as Haymitch announces that this is his tenth call.

"The voicemail is a subtle hint that I'm not available. Most people just wait for a call back," Gale remarks coolly. "What do you want?"

"I got you a present. Meet me at the usual deer blind in an hour."

Haymitch cuts the connection.

The usual deer blind. He suddenly and keenly wishes that had been Katniss on the other line. He'd rather hang out with someone who doesn't want to talk much.

…

Gale reaches the rendezvous point around sunset.

"What are you so happy about?" he asks after he climbs into the burnt out shell of a sparrowhawk hovercraft, a small, two-seater destroyed in the war against the Capitol. Someone fitted the cockpit and part of the wrecked fuselage onto a steel platform several feet off of the ground a mile into the forest. Katniss and Gale used it for hunting once in a while. He doubts Haymitch came out here for the same purpose. It's not bad for a secret rendezvous, except for the rotting exterior smell and the smashed out windows letting in all the midges.

"Best week of my life in years," Haymitch congratulates himself. "First I get to fire you and now Madge won't look at me with those moping eyes anymore for not giving her the job in the first place."

Gale glares at the trees through the empty windshield as the sun starts to sink beneath them. "Yeah. Except you didn't really fire me. And the treason charge – a bit overboard."

He knew that they'd stage that kind of a stunt, but he didn't know when with his communicuff on the fritz. Then add in his personal distractions; Friday took him by surprise. Luckily, he came across convincing enough. Maybe too convincing, given Madge's unfortunate reaction, which resulted in a short trip to the ER and bed rest.

"Stop raining on my parade," Haymitch complains. He tosses Gale a new communicuff from his coat pocket. "Don't let anyone see that – and definitely don't wear it in the shower like the first one."

Gale snorts as he tightens the cuff around his wrist. "Why give me this? Doesn't Plutarch want to go through with an actual arrest?" he asks.

Haymitch shakes his head. "If anyone asks, we're still collecting evidence or something."

Gale nods. "Good. I don't want to go _that _far to trick this guy." Then he grumbles, "By the way, your sense of timing's a treat."

"For you or the agency?"

"Me."

"Frankly, Hawthorne, I don't give a damn," Haymitch grunts. He pulls a flask out of a hidden pocket in his jacket and unscrews the cap.

"Effie knows you have that?" Gale points at the flask tipped at Haymitch's thirsty lips.

"If you tell her, I'll fire you for real," Haymitch threatens around a gulp.

"Sure you will."

Haymitch wipes his lips on the back of his sleeve. "We're this close to catching our man. With the agency supposedly pinning this on you, he's got the freedom to do something stupid. You just sit tight and draw a handsome salary doing absolutely nothing."

Doing absolutely nothing – Gale wonders what his dad would say if he could see his son getting paid to sit around. Well, Gale doesn't plan to wait idly, even if he's not engaged in something work-related exactly.

Gale plays with some of the dials on the communicuff. Terry showed him how to use the GPS on it. When he pushes the dial in, a bleeping green light on the cuff face appears with a floating cloud listing coordinates.

"These are our coordinates?" he asks.

Haymitch leans over to look. "Yeah. And if we have someone to track, you'll use a similar application to keep an eye on a suspect, if we can tag him. But that's a big _if_. Mostly you'll just stay put."

Gale frowns. "So, I'm really supposed to do nothing?"

"For now. We'll contact you."

Haymitch leaves it at that and Gale wonders if they're done here. He starts to scoot out of the rotted seat, but Haymitch clears his throat, stalling him.

"So you followed my advice?" he says cryptically, making a show of polishing his flask on his shirt when Gale turns around to look at him.

"What advice?" Gale asks grudgingly. "Not to drink alcohol near an open flame?"

"No. I mean yes," Haymitch blusters, "that's good advice, but I meant about getting to the bottom of a certain employee?"

Haymitch gives him a smug smile, leaving no doubt as to the identity of that employee. He takes another swig from the flask. Gale's eyes narrow suspiciously. He considers snatching the flask out of Haymitch's hands just for trying to irritate him.

"What makes you think that?" he grouses.

Haymitch shrugs. "Oh, just a certain amount of chivalry you displayed."

Gale flinches, then his face closes off. "I don't know what you're talking about." He crosses his arms stubbornly.

"'Oh, please Haymitch, don't fire the poor, helpless dear,' blah blah blah," Haymitch gibbers mockingly.

"That's not what I said," Gale grumbles. "You had no right to suggest that you'd take Madge's job, too. How was I supposed to know you and Heavensbee wouldn't cook up something that stupid?"

"Eh, just messing with you," Haymitch says. "It keeps me young."

Gale snorts loudly. "What made you think that would work?" he grouses.

"Once in a while I follow my own advice, Hawthorne," he replies. "If my employees…or tributes…are canoodling, I notice."

Gale has the unpleasant and unfamiliar sensation of a blush creeping up his throat, hopefully hidden in the twilight. "We don't canoodle."

It's Haymitch's turn to snort. "Huh. Right," he says. "I might be a no-good drunk, but I keep my eyes open. If you aren't canoodling, you will be. Assuming you don't arse the whole thing."

Silence. Gale squirms under the weight of it. He knows Haymitch knows _enough_ and is just waiting for him to admit it.

"Alright," Gale huffs. "Got any more advice, since you're so keen to dole it out?"

The skin around Haymitch's eyes crinkle. "I thought you'd never ask. The way I see it," he gestures at nothing in particular with his flask. The contents slosh around, but he's careful not to waste a drop. "Madge could do better, but you could do a lot worse. And – oh," he gets a nasty gleam in his eyes, "you already have."

Gale gives him the stink eye, not grateful for bringing up his track record with women. Haymitch brushes it off.

"Madge isn't Katniss or Jo," he points out unhelpfully. "Do something nice for her for a change and it'll stick, which is good news for you."

Do something nice? That's awfully broad. So what, like give her a vase of flowers like Junius did? And how's it supposed to work differently for Madge than Katniss? Peeta does nice crap for her all the time and it "sticks."

"What do you mean stick? Why will it?"

"Because she'll think you're doing it out of _kindness_; that's how she operates," Haymitch points out. "She won't think of it as a transaction that will put her in your debt and she's too conscientious to ignore a good deed. You want to get on her good side? Then be where she needs you to be."

"Where's that?" he asks despite himself.

"At home."

Oh, yeah? How is he supposed to enter her home on a regular basis? He barely got her to agree to a ceasefire.

"What's option B?" Gale asks.

Haymitch drinks. "There isn't one, boyo."

"Nuts."

"She wants to be self-sufficient, but she's burned out. Do something to relieve her anxiety and she'll melt like butter," Haymitch explains. "You can be her knight in shining…whatever."

Her knight in shining whatever. Auspicious.

Fortunately, Gale has a sudden inspiration. In a siege, if you can't take the enemy's gates, try to get around and go in from behind. There's bound to be a backdoor. If he can figure out what that door might be, he'd have a straight shot at Madge. And he thinks he might know.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N:** I can't believe you all doubted Haymitch. For shame. ;) The title comes from one of my favorite numbers in _Guys and Dolls_, "Adelaide's Lament."


	14. The World Spins Madly On

**Chapter 14**

**The World Spins Madly On**

* * *

><p>Late Monday morning, Mr. Undersee opens the door to their flat feeling surprised. It's been so long since anyone stopped by for a visit, especially with Madge gone, that he assumes someone got the wrong address by accident. But the surprise takes a pleasant turn.<p>

"Oh, Mr. Hawthorne, good morning," he greets, recognizing the tall, dark, laconic youth who visited two days earlier. He seems to be taking to unemployment with gusto, with his wrinkled clothes and several days growth of stubble on his jaw.

"It's just Gale."

"Well, Gale, my daughter isn't home, I'm afraid," Mr. Undersee says sadly. "Which is quite unfortunate."

Gale startles and nearly drops a box of tools on his foot. "She's not worse?" As in, hospital bound. He didn't think his visit would have _that_ bad of an effect on her.

"No, no. She went back to work today," Mr. Undersee clarifies. "I mean unfortunate in the sense that you've missed her."

"Oh." Gale clears his throat. "I'm not here to see Madge anyway. I just noticed the last time I came that you had a slow drain." He hefts the box of tools he borrowed from Bristel. "I'm not a plumber but I used to fix our sink at home in the Seam all the time."

"Oh. Did Madge speak to you about it?" he asks, puzzled. "She never said."

"No..." Gale admits with something like guilt. "I just thought I'd offer to help. District…pride and whatnot."

A smile grows across Mr. Undersee's face as he steps out of Gale's way.

"Well, I'd better not leave you standing in the hallway. Come in."

As Gale trods to the sink, he allows himself a little grin as well. He congratulates himself for successfully invading the Undersee stronghold without breaking a sweat. What is it Vick used to say? Easy peasy.

After Gale shuts off the main water supply, Mr. Undersee helps him clear out the cleaning products and other stored items beneath the sink. He needs a bucket to place under the metal elbow pipe to collect any water and debris when he opens it up. Mr. Undersee provides him with a stockpot, which is as close as he'll get to a bucket. He twists around on his back, sliding into the cabinet. His long legs spill out onto the kitchen floor, nearly reaching the cabinets on the opposite side. Small kitchen.

Gale grunts as he tests the upper nut with plyers. It doesn't budge. "Hand me that pipe wrench, would you…er, Mr. Undersee."

"Call me Henry," Mr. Undersee replies, surveying Bristel's toolbox. "And which one is a wrench?"

Gale closes his eyes. What sort of guy never had to learn which tools are which? He shakes his head and starts attacking the upper and lower nuts holding the elbow pipe to the others with the wrench after he points it out to Madge's father. He makes a noise here and then when he bumps his head on something or the nuts resist. He hears Mr. Undersee pull up a chair to watch, but Gale concentrates on removing the old pipe. In the end, Mr. Undersee initiates the conversation.

"You're the boy who saved eight hundred lives, aren't you? Or I should say young man." When Gale looks surprised, he adds, "I've been doing my research since Saturday."

Gale stares out through the cabinet. Mr. Undersee researched him? Like a background check? He's not sure if that's promising or a little bit creepy – though maybe that just makes them even. He goes back to attacking the pipe.

"I'm not sure I would've kept anyone alive," he grunts when the wrench slips on the lower nut, "if the hovercrafts hadn't arrived when they did."

"You took care of the fence. Clever thinking," Mr. Undersee praises.

"Seemed obvious."

"Not to those of us who didn't make a habit of disappearing beneath it," he remarks, unflappable in his bid to flatter Gale's heroism.

"I guess."

The pipe finally comes away and Gale narrowly avoids getting old dishwater in the face. The stockpot catches most of it. Gale fishes around in Bristel's tools to find something to clean out the stubborn stuff in the pipe. He pulls out a lot of congealed muck that reminds him of burnt oatmeal and a butter knife.

"We might have to replace this, altogether," Gale points out. "Looks old."

He ends up throwing the whole thing in the trash, since there isn't any sense in reattaching the thing, only to take it off again. He makes a mental note of the pipe size.

Without the use of the sink, he wipes his hands on his pants, then stands up.

"Come on," he says to Henry. "We're going for a new pipe."

…

After they return from the hardware store, Gale has to rethread and tape the new pipe twice before he gets it to go on evenly. He tightens by hand.

"Fill the sink when I switch the water supply back on," he orders.

Henry complies. Gale watches for leaks as it drains, adjusting here and there until he's satisfied. Gale rinses out the stockpot, careful to throw the chunky bits away in the trash, and ends up using the last of the dish soap. He informs Henry, who waves it away.

"I could get you some more."

"Nevermind that," he says. "I'll add it to the shopping list."

Gale glances at a magnetic notepad on the fridge that has two items on it: cream crackers and instant soup. What hedonists these Undersees are, he muses dryly.

Together, Gale and Henry put away the boxes and bottles they found under the sink. Gale washes his hands again after that. "I guess that's it," he says.

Mr. Undersee gives him a friendly smile. "Thank you, Gale. I'm sure Madge will be pleased to see that the sink is fixed. But I wish you'd let us pay for the pipe."

"Forget it." Gale can't charge the Undersees for being part of his plan. They're breaking even, he figures. Free labor and supplies for Madge's favor. Eventually. Once her anger dissipates when she finds out he brought himself over here.

"I should get going, then," he says.

Henry glances dejectedly at the clock on the wall. "Where are my manners? Let me get you a drink before you go, at least. We have coffee, though it's only instant. Madge won't let me have a coffeemaker."

Gale wonders if it's a good idea to stick around, but he's tempted to take the opportunity to court Madge's father when it's presented to him. Especially since his next course of action has yet to reveal itself now that he's used his plumbing ruse.

"I don't want to take up your afternoon," Gale says.

Henry winks at him. "I'm avoiding a book club for senior citizens," he admits. "Madge signed me up for it. Besides, you're unemployed. You have time to chat."

Mr. Undersee's blunt acknowledgement of the facts throws Gale off at first, but then he finds he likes it. Hell, he is unemployed. Sort of. What has he got to rush off to? It won't hurt him to sponge off of the Undersee's instant coffee stash.

"Thanks," he says, both for the offer and for Henry making his plan far too easy.

Mr. Undersee clears his throat. "Would you mind plugging in the oven? I don't quite fit in the space between the counter." He pats his stomach.

Gale gives him a strange look, but doesn't ask about the plug issue. Mr. Undersee then starts a kettle to boil while Gale leans against the counter to watch. It's definitely strange to see the mayor up close like this and talk. Even if he isn't the mayor anymore, Henry used to be. Gale guesses that he'll always think of him that way.

"Where'd you learn to fix a pipe like that?" Mr. Undersee asks while he retrieves a canister of instant coffee and some mugs from a cabinet.

Gale grips the edge of the counter with both hands, remembering all the times he sat on their own wooden one on Sunday mornings watching his father work. He used to cram in as much time as he could with Rhys on his days off, whether they went hunting or to the Hob, or fixing something Mom said was broken. His dad had been his hero and Gale wished he'd learned more from him while he could.

"My dad taught me," Gale tells Henry. "The man could fix anything. I don't have quite his knack for it, but I'm alright."

"Your girlfriend must like having a handyman like you around," Mr. Undersee remarks casually as the water boils.

Gale snorts, first at the obvious motive behind the question, and secondly at just how wrong Henry is. "The first two didn't care much," he mutters.

The kettle whistles, so Mr. Undersee removes it from the heat before pouring the water. He hands Gale a filled mug and a spoon. "First two?" he inquires.

"My exes. I'm not dating anyone right now," Gale says into his mug. He gulps down the coffee, letting it scald the back of his throat. The instant stuff reminds him of the "coffee" they used to brew out of roasted chicory roots back home. Good, but not like real beans.

"Oh, you aren't? A strapping fellow like you?" Mr. Undersee remarks with artful incredulity.

Gale takes another chug of coffee and tries not to grin. "Nope."

Mr. Undersee clucks his tongue. "What is with the young people these days?" He shakes his head in disapproval.

Gale shrugs. "Maybe it's my criminal record," he says wryly.

Mr. Undersee clucks his tongue. "Nonsense. No son of Twelve would support the Jabberjays," he says dismissively. "Madge says it's impossible, and she's usually right."

Gale's eyebrows furrow, wondering what Madge told her father about his fake dismissal from the agency. Why would she tell him about that and not about their bickering?

"You're too young for crime anyway." Mr. Undersee squints at him. "How old are you? Not over thirty yet."

"Twenty-five," he answers, feeling that he's closer to being too old for crime than the other way around.

"Hm. I was already married by twenty-five," Henry muses. "Of course, with my wife's health, Madge didn't come around until much later." He stirs his coffee around while he remembers. "She turned out to be such a colicky little thing. Bit of a handful. We didn't have more." He stares at something in his coffee.

Gale takes the high road and keeps from pointing out that she hasn't changed much. Instead, he lets Mr. Undersee refill his mug.

"Still, she turned out well for all that fussing," Mr. Undersee continues. "Don't you think?"

Gale chokes on his coffee.

…

Madge thought she would be pleased. She _should_ be elated. She's totaled out the figures in her next paycheck, she's enrolled her father in a book club at the community center, and she has her letter from her friend getting nice and crinkly in her pocket.

She is not pleased.

Somehow Gale has managed to make himself felt just as much, if not more so, by his absence than by his presence. In her mind, his absence had always been prized as ideal. His presence had been the initial problem: he arrived, he stole her job, he argued, he ruined her date. But now that he's gone, and she's taken up residence in what she can only think of as _his_ office and _his _desk and _his _messy folders, he's managed to spoil everything. As usual.

Madge leans back in _his_ chair. Her legs dangle off the seat because, go figure, the height of the chair is stuck at his adjustments. She hates the way his legs can annoy her even when they're not in the room.

The list goes on.

Gale's appearance on her doorstep must have reminded her father that real men her age still exist somewhere. Tangible ones with first and last names and permanent records.

And Madge didn't probe too far, but she got the impression that her father has a "tangible" candidate in mind.

Madge shudders. A ceasefire is no basis for a relationship.

The clock on the wall says 5:05. The other staff must be clocking out finally. Madge peels herself out of the chair. She's been eying the files Gale left laying around, but she feels uncomfortable snooping around them when Haymitch might walk in on her. But the mess makes it impossible for her to concentrate on her work. She's got to round up a list of potential interns for Haymitch to fill the space she vacated. She spent the afternoon going over the particulars, which is another reason why she couldn't deal with Gale's mess.

She gets down on her knees. The cold of the tiles soaks into her gabardine skirt and bruises her skin. Where on earth she's supposed to begin with this mess?

Madge picks up a manila envelope that's ready to burst. It's ridiculous and wasteful that they're keeping paper files at all these days. Once she finds out what they are, Madge plans to set Terry to work scanning the files into their database.

The first thick, stapled papers are nothing more than printed spreadsheets for District 4 supplies from last year. Junius negotiated the distribution of canvas to District Four from District 8, where textiles come from. Madge looks through the top files on the rest of the piles. These all contain contracts they hold for various accounts. It takes her a while to figure out how the piles are organized beyond that. At first it doesn't seem like there is any method to it, until she discovers the unifying elements on the reports, spreadsheets, and contracts.

The signatures. Several of the names predate the time Haymitch hired Madge.

"Heading home soon?"

Madge looks up to see Ilona standing in her doorway, wearing her coat and holding her purse. Madge glances at the clock – nearly six o'clock. What is Ilona doing here still?

"No. I'm cleaning up." She points to the stacked files all over the floor.

"He certainly left a mess behind," says Ilona thoughtfully. Madge can tell she's itching to clean it all up.

"I thought so, but there is some method to it," Madge replies. She smiles at the secretary. "Well, have a good night."

Ilona lifts her purse as a farewell gesture. "See you tomorrow."

After Ilona leaves, Madge loses herself in the files rather than putting them away, like she intended. What was Gale trying to find that he needed to pull out every single folder from the cabinet drawers and stack them on the floor? And does this have to do with Haymitch firing him? What did he want to know about, or from, the signatures?

And more importantly, do any of them prove Gale's innocence?

The questions drive her spare. And the fact the she's bothering to waste her time makes it worse. Her legs are numb from sitting on the floor and her back hurts, but she keeps promising herself just one file more.

"Putting in overtime, I see?" Junius trills out of the blue. "Don't overdo it, now."

Madge nearly jumps out of her skin. "Junius," she gasps, pressing a hand to her throat. "How late is it? I didn't know you were still here."

Junius glances at his watch. "Nearly seven. I'm just finishing up some calls." His face sobers into a fatherly expression. "I wanted to see how you were feeling."

Madge lips press into a polite smile. "Much better, thank you," she says. "The flowers were lovely."

Junius approaches her desk, standing over her with a hopeful smile. "You liked them?"

"I love flowers," she answers evasively.

"I'm glad." He glances around the office, like he's seeing it for the first time. "You have your work cut out for you. That's quite a lot of paperwork."

Madge sighs. "It is."

"I could stay and help, if you wish," Junius offers gallantly.

Madge shakes her head. "No, it's all right. Go enjoy your evening," she tells him. "I'll be leaving soon, myself."

Junius rests a hand on the desktop, eyebrows furrowed pensively. "It's a shame what happened with Mr. Hawthorne. He was a promising young man." He shakes his head sadly. "I still don't understand."

"Neither do I, Junius," she replies. "But that's Mr. Heavensbee's problem now."

"Too true." Then he says brightly, "But it certainly worked in your favor – we're all very happy for you. Well, I'll be here bright and early tomorrow."

Madge blinks at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond to the potential suggestions in his comments. She finally settles on a simple goodbye.

When Junius has finally gone, Madge feels a twinge of guilt for lying. More for not speaking the truth about herself than misrepresenting things to Junius. But she couldn't very well have Junius around while she actively searched for proof of Gale's innocence. That would not go over well with Haymitch if he found out. He has been very tight-lipped about the whole situation since she came back.

And she'd hate to ruin his unprecedented good mood. It seems that the one thing Haymitch needed more than therapy, was the chance to sack Gale. Haymitch is a changed man ever since.

Madge wishes she could say the same about herself. Well, not about being a man…

"I don't care," she mumbles to herself. Maybe if she says it enough, she'll believe it. Until then, her sense of justice and general nosiness will continue to thwart her common sense.

…

Madge locks up around seven o'clock when her stomach makes it clear that it's about two gurgles away from eating itself. Her pinching black heels clip the floor in an even staccato that echoes off the empty hollow corridors. It's a lonely sound and Madge picks up the pace. Empty hallways make her feel suspicious and jumpy. She catches an empty lift and presses the button to close the doors sooner.

With a bump, the elevator descends for a few seconds, then shutters to a stop on Level 2. The doors open on Katniss and Peeta who are having an intense discussion in front of the lift. The both turn with surprised expressions when they spot her.

"Oh, hello," Madge greets happily, feeling instantly better seeing her friends. She hadn't spoken to either of them since her fateful date.

They step inside the car and Peeta presses the button for Level 6. He takes in her regulation attire. "Just come from work?"

Madge nods. "My first day as manager."

Katniss glances at the ceiling while Madge counts to ten in her head. Then true to form, Peeta says, "You should come over. I made a chocolate brownie tort with chocolate paté and whipped vanilla bean sauce."

Madge's brow lifts. "You've moved on to torts?"

"I'm also working on truffles, but that's not real baking, I guess," says Peeta humbly. "I'm branching out."

"Oh." That reminds Madge of the sweet shop back home that her mother's family used to own before her mother married her father. She always thought it would be fun to work in that shop when she was a girl. Much more fun than the awful job her father had of trying to run the district and appease the Capitol.

"Come and have dinner with us," Peeta presses again. "We're going to celebrate anyway."

Katniss gives Peeta a meaningful look. Madge looks away while they carry on a silent conversation. She decides to wonder what Peeta wants to celebrate now that Katniss wouldn't want anyone to know about. They already had her birthday. Peeta's came the month before that. No anniversaries yet.

"We should tell her," Peeta says firmly out loud. He's an easy-going man, but when he uses that voice Katniss tends to at least consider, even if she doesn't listen. Like when she went to the Feast in their first Games.

Katniss shifts uncomfortably on her feet. "We're moving back to Twelve finally," she tells Madge hesitantly, aware that it's good news for them, but not for Madge.

Madge's jaw drops. Her eyes flash between them. They're her only friends left here besides Ilona and the man in her letters. But she only really talks to the secretary when she's at work and well, Madge hasn't met her friend. Part of her is afraid he won't accept her explanation for Gale's appearance at her table. And with things up in the air, she needs her friends for support in case he backs out on her again.

"What? Now?" she asks with open dismay.

Katniss hugs her arms around her waist, staring through narrowed eyes at the lift doors like she can see through them to their home district. "In a month or two, we think." Her tone conveys that it's not soon enough.

Peeta gives Madge an apologetic, lopsided smile.

"So…." Madge glances between them. "It's safe for you, then? They secured the district?"

"We can take care of ourselves," Katniss states flatly.

"But the officials…"

Katniss's expression sharpens into a look of open distaste. "The officials can screw themselves. We're not waiting another _five_ _years_ for them to get their act together." She looks at Peeta for support.

"I guess a lot of people would like to finish us off, but we can't keep hiding," he says as much to Katniss as to Madge. "We want to dictate our own lives."

Madge doesn't blame them for feeling tired of waiting around for other people who want to make decisions for them. In fact, when she thinks about it, she's surprised Peeta and Katniss stayed as long as they did.

"And we want to be near Katniss's family again," Peeta adds. He almost adds more, but reconsiders, suddenly changing tack. "You know, there's a place for you in Twelve too, Madge. I'm sure of it."

Madge shakes her head sadly. "I don't think so. I'm going to miss you both," she says gloomily. In fact, she's tearing up and trying not to show it. "When did you decide this? It seems so sudden."

Katniss purses her lips, seeing the dopey grin lighting up Peeta's face, even though he's trying to hide it. She rolls her eyes, then nods ever so slightly.

"Well, we'd probably wait longer if it wasn't for the baby," Peeta says, reaching out to touch the small of Katniss's back. "We just had our first official check up with Katniss's doctor since we found out."

Madge's hand flies to her mouth. She gasps. When did everything in her life suddenly decide it was time for a change?

"Well…congratulations," she stammers, lowering her hand. "I didn't know you were trying."

"We weren't," says Katniss flatly to counteract the blush on her cheeks.

"I kept trying to convince her." Peeta shrugs, giving Katniss's hip a small squeeze as he pulls her closer against his side.

"So, you finally did convince her?" Madge hopes.

"No," Katniss mumbles for him.

"Oh." Madge glances at Peeta, then at her feet, then at Katniss.

"Er, biology intervened," he explains sheepishly.

Madge stands there awkwardly, wondering if she should be happy for Peeta or concerned for Katniss.

"I can see why you'd want to be near your mother and sister, then," she says, steering the conversation toward something safer. "Do they know?"

"They know we've decided to move back," Katniss tells her. The corners of her mouth quirk like she's trying to hide a smirk. "We're going to tell them in person. I'd like to see the look on Prim's face. She pressured me worse than Peeta about having kids."

"I don't know about that." He laughs. Then he says more seriously, "Anyway, we'll see how long we can keep the secret from them."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," Katniss states. "You're the one who can't seem to." Live. On prime time television, she seems to add.

Peeta shrugs like he can't help himself. "It might help you adjust to the idea of a baby if you talked to your mother."

Katniss rolls her eyes. "I don't need help."

She doesn't have that kind of relationship with her mother, anyway – in fact, Madge has a much better understanding of what it must have been like for Katniss all those years of looking after her mother and Prim, the parent-child roles blurred and indistinct. Madge had to take care of both her parents, at different stages of their lives.

As Peeta and Katniss continue on this vein, Madge feels like she's trespassing on something incredibly personal – and she's right. But the elevator curtails her ability to give them space. She busies herself with the cuticles of her nails.

"We don't have to be afraid for our kids," Peeta says with hope in his voice. "The world they'll grow up in is different from the one we had."

"I'm afraid they'll all be fat," Katniss retorts, despite Peeta's serious tone, relieving some of the tension. She jabs him in the chest with her finger. "If you feed them pastries constantly."

Madge laughs when Peeta's eyebrows rise to his hairline, as though he's surprised to hear pastries connected with him. "As soon as we're back in Twelve, I promise I won't bake a thing."

Katniss's eyes narrow with open disbelief. "No?"

He draws an X over his heart. "Promise. I'll let you run around in the forest for hours, doing all the killing and cooking and I'll just kick back and paint."

"Like hell you will," she replies. "You're in charge of the boy."

Peeta's eyes grow round. "I think it's a girl," he says.

Katniss shakes her head. Her voice has a tone of warmth in it when she says, "It's a boy."

Peeta looks at Madge and shakes his head, as if Katniss can't see him do it. "Girl."

Katniss stares at him in horror.

"No?" he asks innocently.

Katniss glares death at him through slitted eyelids.

Peeta shrugs. "All right. It's a boy," he says. "Though I don't know why you're so set on it. I had two brothers. It's not all it's cracked up to be."

"I _want_ a boy. I never had a brother," says Katniss, with feeling. There's something fierce, and well…motherly, in her face as she argues the details of their baby with Peeta. "I can teach him all the things my father taught me."

"You could do that with a girl," says Peeta, pointing out the contradiction. "You're a girl."

"Not if she's like you," Katniss huffs. "Which she probably will be."

"If she's like me, then she'll be a great wrestler," he points out proudly with a sly look. "As well as sensitive."

"She'll have to wrestle the boys then, since Twelve doesn't have a girl's wrestling team," Katniss rejoins.

Peeta's face falls as he considers all the unborn boys who might be interested in his unborn daughter. He's not pleased if his sudden scowl indicates anything.

"Maybe we should have a boy first," he says, thoughtfully. "He can break the fingers of any boy who tries to touch her."

Katniss and Peeta are so engrossed in speculating over their future offspring that Madge assumes she's been forgotten and doesn't think to get off the lift with them with the elevator stops at Level 6.

After they've stepped off, they realize that they've left her behind. Peeta holds his hand out to stop the doors from closing.

"Coming?" he asks.

"You two have a lot to talk about," she replies. "I should go home."

Peeta gives her an apologetic smile. "Sorry, er, we got carried away," he apologizes. "Seriously though, you should come. We want to hear about your first day back to work."

Katniss nods when Madge looks a question in her direction. She allows them to coerce her out of the lift. And well, she should probably enjoy the last few times she'll be able to spend with them before they move. It's not a promising thought.

…

The inside of their apartment smells like a chocolate factory. Madge can understand why Katniss fears for their baby's metabolism. But Madge also knows that when the two of them are back in Twelve and able to have real lives instead of just biding their time, Peeta will find better outlets for getting through the day.

Katniss excuses herself to change her clothes while Peeta pulls whatever food he can find out of the refrigerator. While she's gone he takes the opportunity to ask Madge some Gale-specific questions while she hovers by the counter.

"We were shocked when we found out that Haymitch fired Gale," he tells Madge. "It's not that he wouldn't fire people, in general. I mean, he's Haymitch. But Gale...I don't know." He puts down a plate of sliced bagels and then scratches his head. "Anyway, it's good news for you, yeah?"

Madge looks down at her fingernails. There aren't any cuticles left for her to push back. "Yes, it's good news for me."

Peeta studies her face. He's always been clever at picking up on other people's emotions. "You didn't overdo it today, did you? You're still a little pale," he observes.

Madge smiles wanly. "People kept telling me not to overdo it, Peeta. I think they're afraid I've developed some morbid desire to hit my head on things," she quips. Then she frowns. "But to be perfectly honest, it's not really the first day that I'd imagined."

Peeta clatters around in the silverware drawer, but turns to face her. "Why's that?"

"Well…I guess I just can't feel good about it." She shrugs.

"Because of Gale?" Katniss asks warily, startling them both by arriving soundlessly in the kitchen.

Madge nods uncomfortably.

"It's not your fault," says Peeta.

"It's horrible that Plutarch wants to accuse him," Madge says with a sigh. "I feel it's more out of a desire to make it look like they have information about these disappearing shipments and false orders, rather than actually solving the problem."

Katniss studies her face. Madge feels like her serious gray eyes are piercing through her skin. "So, _you_ don't think he's guilty?"

Madge gapes at Katniss, surprised that she'd even question that. "Of course Gale's not guilty."

"You sound pretty sure," says Peeta, shooing them both toward the table.

Madge's stare shifts between her two friends, then pins Katniss again. "Katniss, you know he couldn't be guilty," says Madge.

Katniss frowns as she takes a seat. "Gale's been surprising me lately," she admits pointedly, studying Madge as much as ever. "But no. He would never do anything to support Jabberjays."

Madge smacks the table. "That's exactly what I said to Haymitch."

Peeta carries a stack of plates to set out. "I think this is the first time we've heard you say something positive about Gale. Did the two of you work out your differences?"

Madge squirms, remembering the awkward conversation they'd had when Gale surprised her by turning up at her apartment. Does a ceasefire mean that they've resolved their issues? Considering the strong emotions the mere mention of his name still conjures, she doubts it.

"Regardless of how I feel about him _personally_, the facts simply don't add up. He might not be conventional, but he's not a crook or a…traitor."

"Well, not for the Capitol anyway." Peeta smirks, taking a seat next to Katniss and helping himself to a bagel. "But he is a bit of a rebel." And then he says something that shocks both Madge and Katniss. "You know, the four of us should spend more time together. Play board games or something before Katniss and I go on our merry way."

Madge can tell by the look on Katniss's face that she thinks that might be the worst idea Peeta's come up with so far. And Madge can't pretend that she doesn't understand the thinly-veiled suggestion in Peeta's words. Madge will have to lay that idea to rest right away. Maybe she should have done it sooner.

She blushes as she says, "Well, we might have to make it the _five _of us."

Katniss and Peeta stare at her. Katniss squints like she's trying to do the math in her head.

"Why?" Peeta asks.

Madge fiddles with the edge of her plate while she answers. "Well…you remember those letters?"

"Letters? Oh." Peeta scratches his head and looks at Katniss. "I guess…I didn't think about them."

Madge laughs at the comical expressions on their faces and reaches for a bagel, tearing of a chunk of it to pop in her mouth.

"I'm going to meet him. That is, I tried to before." She frowns and mutters, "But Gale ruined it."

"You mean…he's still writing to you?" Katniss gasps. She and Peeta share looks of consternation.

"Why wouldn't he?" Madge asks.

"Well…after the whole restaurant debacle…" Peeta's voice trails off.

Now it's Madge's turn to look confused. "How did you know about that, Peeta?"

"Gale told us about it," Peeta admits. Then he adds, "I _think_ he felt bad."

"Oh." Madge blinks, surprised that Gale would mention it to Katniss and Peeta. It doesn't seem like him. "Well, he did apologize later."

"He did?" Katniss's brows crease with surprise and confusion. "And this other guy…what did he think?"

"Well, I explained everything to him," she says with more feeling than confidence. "I don't know if he's gotten it yet, so I'm waiting for the next letter still. But I'm sure he'll understand."

Peeta concentrates on dishing out food, then says, "It's kind of strange, though. I mean, how do you know this guy isn't an ax murderer?"

He sounds just like her father. "Aren't you both friends with an ax murderer?" Madge asks archly.

Peeta's eyebrows scramble to his hairline again. "Who?"

"Johanna," Katniss snipes at him impatiently.

"Oh yeah," says Peeta. "Well, she doesn't come around much. She left her ax-wielding ways behind her when she married Plutarch."

Katniss doesn't hide her shudder.

"Still, you don't really know if this guy is telling the truth about himself," Peeta continues. "Not like you would in person."

Madge firmly fixes a smile to her face, though she's offended. These letters have been her lifeline to happiness the last year, yet all of her friends are determined to ruin them for her. Coupled with her own doubts and fear of further disappointment, she's growing resentful.

"I think I'm in love with him." She adds quickly, seeing the alarm on their faces, "If you could read his letters, you'd understand…wait. I have one with me." Madge pulls out his latest one from her pocket, the one he wrote after the Broken Oar incident.

Peeta and Katniss accept the folded paper and quietly read it together. Katniss looks pained and a little green around the edges. Madge wonders if she got to the part where her friend refers to Gale as some kind of ladykiller.

They both look up, squinting at her at roughly the same time, as if looking for a speck of dirt on her nose. She wipes her mouth in case there are crumbs on it.

"What?" Madge asks defensively under the prolonged scrutiny.

"Just trying to see if your eyes really do sparkle with," Peeta says, looking back down at the letter, "Er, with fire and mystery."

Madge blushes deeply. "I forgot he wrote that."

Peeta scratches the back of his head. "Are you sure you want this guy?" asks he, holding up a letter. "He's barely literate. He misspelled every other word."

Madge bristles. "He wrote that letter in a moment of great personal distress. You should read his other letters. They're very well expressed. And besides, there's more to a relationship than orthography, Peeta," Madge tells him. "You have to read between the lines."

"You're talking to the wrong man," Katniss mutters into her glass of water. "He's all orthography."

Peeta beams at Katniss, even though it probably wasn't meant to be praise, Madge thinks. And then Peeta gets an odd gleam in his eye, like he's had an inspiration. He folds the letter and hands it back to Madge, who grasps it protectively.

"If you're attracted to men like this, why not date Gale Hawthorne? He's in town. You know him, which is more than you can say about this guy. _And_he's practically illiterate, too. Fancy that," Peeta adds with a little too much relish.

"I'll thank you not to make jokes, Peeta," Madge says briskly.

Peeta tents his fingers below his chin. "I wasn't exactly," he says. "I thought maybe you sort of felt attracted to Gale once. You certainly are jumping to his defense. And well, in the past, I thought you liked him because of the morphling."

Katniss's eyes bug, like Peeta just confirmed something in her mind that she'd forgotten about.

Madge purses her lips, remembering that particular evening. It's harder for her to recall the emotions she felt then with each passing year. She's not really sure why she did it. Out of a sense of justice? Or perhaps out of selfishness because she _had_ admired him? She doesn't thank Peeta for reminding her, and she's embarrassed that she had been that transparent.

"Peeta, that happened over five years ago," she points out, not exactly denying the truth, but loath to admit it. "I was sixteen. It's nothing. And he had such a horrible reputation."

"He did?" Katniss balks.

"Of course! According to rumors, he was always meeting up with girls behind the coal shed or the slag heaps," Madge grouses. "If there is one thing that Gale Hawthorne is most certainly _not, _it's a gentleman. Cave trolls treat girls better."

"I didn't know you listened to gossip," says Katniss glumly.

Madge laughs dryly. It's funny that Katniss spent that much time with Gale and didn't know that side of him, even though he had been in love with her. "Katniss, you and I barely spoke to one another at school. There wasn't anything else to do but eavesdrop. And, unfortunately, he was the hot topic."

"I wouldn't say that Gale is ungentlemanly," says Peeta. "Not particularly sensitive or savvy - I'll grant you that. But he must have _some_ principles. He's got a kid sister, after all."

"The point I'm trying to make, Peeta, is that I'm not in the least interested in Gale Hawthorne, romantically or otherwise. I care that a former colleague has been falsely accused and that I'm benefiting from it. My sense of justice is rankled, that's all," she says.

Katniss and Peeta allow the subject to drop, concentrating very hard on their dinner.

…

Gale arrived back at his place sometime in the afternoon after promising to meet up with Henry Undersee later in the week. He crashed on his couch without bothering to heat up anything for dinner and the only think to awaken him from his extended evening nap happened to be the sound of pounding on his door.

He sits up with a grunt, plastic crinkling beneath him as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. One look at his cuff tells him it's well past dinnertime. His stomach growls and he considers ignoring the door so he can fry up some eggs instead. Breakfast for dinner is his favorite luxury in District 13.

The grating sound of the buzzer duels the pounding for most annoying sound.

"I'm coming! God," he shouts as the pounding picks up pace. Gale opens the door and is instantly pushed backward by a blur with long, black hair.

"Hell's teeth," he curses when he's slammed against the wall and pummeled by fists.

"I can't _believe_ you're still writing those stupid letters," Katniss snarls. Her gray eyes are sharp and dark with anger when they aren't hidden by the shorter strands of hair framing her face. "Stop stringing Madge along."

"Hello, Katniss," Gale says with sardonic ill-humor when he's finally able to hold her away at arm's length. "Nice evening for a visit."

"Shut up," she hisses, trying to release his grip on her arms. "Let go of me."

Gale's eyes narrow, then flick downward. He cocks his head to the side as a lightbulb flashes in his brain. "Baby's coming."

Katniss blushes deeply and stills her struggling. Then she serves him with an almighty glare. "I don't know how you know that, but stop trying to distract me."

It's true that nobody could tell by looking at her, but it's like a sixth sense with Gale. He's ashamed to admit that he used to watch his mother closely when he was a kid, because each new baby meant more food needed, and more food meant _tesserrae_.

"Madge is my friend," Katniss continues to rant before Gale can say anything else about her condition, "She's in love with you—and you are setting her up for _serious_ disappointment."

"So, you're the only one who's allowed to do that? Disappoint people?" he retorts, both stung by the accusation and invigorated by her insinuation about Madge. He hasn't allowed himself to think of Madge's feelings for the man in her letters in conjunction with himself. In love with him? Right. Madge is in love with an idea, not a man. Not yet, anyway. He lets go of Katniss and runs his fingers through his couch-cushion hair. "Relax, Katniss, I have a plan."

"What plan?" she grouses. "Writing more letters is not a plan. Madge doesn't _know_ she's in love with you – and you are certainly not in love with her. This can only end badly."

"We'll see," he says through gritted teeth. He doesn't appreciate Katniss trying to spell things out for him, especially his own feelings. It makes him feel surly.

"What do you mean?" she demands.

Gale directs Katniss to the couch, which is still covered in plastic sheeting from when he moved in, and makes her sit while he stands on the other side of the coffee table. She's never been to his place before and he can tell by the look on her face that she didn't expect what she's seeing.

"Do me a favor," he says. "Just worry about yourself and Peeta. You obviously have more important things to think about now—I'll worry about Madge."

Katniss scowls. "I don't like it."

"I didn't ask."

"You never do," she mutters.

Gale's eyebrows dip into a familiar glower. "Just forget it, Katniss. Trust me."

"I will gut you if you break her heart," she threatens.

"Fine."

Katniss slumps into the couch with a huff, knowing he won't tell her anything if he doesn't want to. "It looks like no one lives here. Why do you still have this stuff on your furniture?"

"So I don't have to put it back when I move out," he replies deadpan.

Katniss rolls her eyes and silently fumes.

"Can I ask what you intend to do without you biting my head off?" she eventually asks, failing to reach that neutral tone she wants.

"No."

Katniss makes a guttural sound of disgust and crosses her arms over her chest. She refuses to look at him.

"Now are you going to explain this to me?" Gale asks, pointing at her stomach.

Katniss drums her fingers on her arms, probably counting to ten. "What is there to explain?"

"You told me you never wanted kids." She's crazy if she thinks he doesn't remember that and won't call her out on it now.

"I also said I never wanted to get married." Katniss shrugs. "Things change. I changed."

"You're okay with having a baby?" he asks skeptically.

"Gale, if people had to abide by what they said when they were sixteen, the world would be a sad place. No, Peeta and I didn't plan this. I can't really explain it, Gale. I'm feeling things I didn't know I would." She rubs her forehead, while she thinks. "Now that it's happening, I can't imagine it differently. We only just found out, but I realize that…I'm already attached to this little person I don't even know."

Gale can see her hands shaking while different emotions play across her face, fear, love, even happiness.

"And Peeta?" he asks.

A reluctant, exasperated and mostly affectionate smile threads across her face. "You know Peeta. He wants a baby."

_And a unicorn_, Gale silently adds. "It's not very fair of him to be so careless," he bluntly accuses, "knowing how you felt."

"It takes two to make a baby, Gale," she points out defensively. "I'm just as guilty of carelessness. It wasn't on purpose. Peeta would never consciously do that. But it did happen and we're happy."

Gale huffs. He knows that Peeta wouldn't ever do anything harmful to Katniss. But Peeta will do a lot of things Gale doesn't care for – like make bald-faced lies on public television. Gale doesn't like this new development in their relationship, but considering that he just told Katniss to mind her own business where he and Madge are concerned, he can't very well butt into her personal affairs either. She's married to Peeta, and made her own choices. It's not Gale's business anymore.

And God knows he's going to have his hands full from here on out without worrying about anyone else.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N**: Title comes from the song by the Weepies.


	15. Use Hearts, Kid, They Work Well

**Shameless plug: **For the love of Gadge, check out Holymfwickee's _Always Trust Your Wing Man_ chapter 2, "My Last Date with Peeta Mellark," in which Madge's dad sets her up on a little date with the baker boy, but spends most of her time remembering a tempestuous run-in with a certain Seam kid. ;)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15<strong>

**Use Hearts, Kid, They Work Well**

* * *

><p>"What do you mean my father isn't here?" Madge demands. "I arranged to meet him at the center at 5:30."<p>

The receptionist gives her a jaundiced look. It's probably near the end of her shift and she's not in the mood to deal with irate patrons, Madge reflects. Well, tough cheese. She's going to deal with Madge.

The woman smacks a clip board down on the counter and taps on a name with her long fingernails. The clicking sound irritates Madge further.

"Henry Undersee signed out of the senior center this afternoon," the receptionist explains with an extra whine in her nasally voice. "Like I told you. He didn't come back."

"He can just sign himself out?" Madge gasps. "Do you have any idea what trouble he could get himself into?"

"This is the community center, ma'am," the woman drones with the hint of a sneer in the downward corners of her mouth. "We're not a daycare."

Madge bristles at the bland, condescending tone and stalks away from the customer service desk. At one time in her life, nobody would have used that tone with her. _Other _tones perhaps (a particularly impudent one comes to mind), but not that particular one. But those days ended a long time ago.

She takes a deep breath to clear her head and focus on the important issue. A sinking feeling in her gut makes it hard to rush, but she tries to get down to Level 9 as quickly as possible. Home is the place to start looking. Her father is probably burning down the underground one floor at a time.

When the bends in the stairwell make her dizzy, Madge gives in and takes the lifts. They're crowded but she can't help herself. She squashes between a mother with a slobbering toddler in her arms and an overweight man with an enormous beard and a nervous tick in his hand. At least, that's why she assumes his hand keeps brushing her skirt.

Madge reflects on the morning at breakfast and then when she dropped off her father on Level 2. Her dad's spirits were high, he told her what activities he expected he'd do at the center and that he looked forward to seeing her later – nothing to make her suspect that he felt dissatisfied with the place or that he'd leave early.

Madge's shoulders slump. Today should have been a triumph as the last day of her first week as manager. She left at 5:00 for the first time. She can revel in the glory of her comfortable, if someone orthopedic, flats. Her high heel days are over – very much like her days working under Gale. That's two painful things out of her life.

Instead, her relaxing, successful day has devolved into tracking down her father. Madge rolls her eyes and that's when she notices the beardy man looking down her blouse, the one with the button missing that she uses as backup when she can't get to the laundry.

Ugh. She should have stuck to her heels.

…

When Madge finally steps off at Level 9, her ears ring from the crying toddler. The little boy started crying when the bearded man bellowed out after Madge bludgeoned him with the blunt end of her shoe. She glared at the man and the mother glared at her and the man's eyes watered.

"Public transportation," she grumbles under her breath as she stalks toward her apartment.

The aroma of hot coffee greets her nose as the door opens for her, meaning that her father is home.

But Madge doesn't have time to dwell on that as a whole new problem presents itself in the form of Gale Hawthorne sitting at her kitchen table with her father. Her father and Gale both look up from a board game they set up between them to watch her standing in the doorway like a slack-jawed idiot. She inwardly curses the fact that she went back to wearing sensible flats, but she honestly didn't expect to happen upon Gale in her home.

"You," she squeaks in surprise, staring wide-eyed at Gale. The lack of control over her voice causes her to flush.

"Yep," Gale says casually, like he shows up here every day. No big deal.

She steps cautiously inside, eyeing the farcical tableaux with suspicion. Both men have their shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows in exactly the same fashion, though Gale's left his flannel shirt mostly unbuttoned, revealing a gray t-shirt of questionable cleanliness. In a week's time, black stubble has begun a vigorous campaign to hide his jawline. And minus the coal dust embedded in his skin and an inch or two of shiny, black hair, he looks very much like his past District 12 self.

That rustic look on Gale distracts Madge for a heart-stuttering moment, but she musters up her willpower and uses it to pretend that she's not a woman with an attraction to rugged—she means sloppy— men. At least until he's gone.

Mr. Undersee smiles pleasantly, oblivious to his daughter mental turmoil. "Ah, Madge. You'll make a third. That should enliven things," says her father, waving her over to the table.

Madge ignores him in favor of glowering at Gale.

Gale slides back in his chair with his eyebrows raised and gives her a once-over with his hooded eyes. He lifts his mug to his lips and takes a gulp. Madge notices that it's her favorite coffee cup in his greasy paws – the wretch!

"It's easy to learn," he remarks, issuing her a challenge to play along.

"What are you doing?" she asks suspiciously, pretending that she can't feel him looking at her.

Her father answers for him. "Gale's teaching me how to play Rob the Hob," he tells her. "It's a game they played in the Seam, apparently." He looks to Gale for approval of his summation.

"You know, when we had free time," Gale adds with a smirk in his voice. "About once a year or so."

"Poor you." Madge makes a face at him, then takes another step closer to the table.

"Are you gambling?" she gasps, taking in the two piles of rice in front of both men. She gives Gale an accusing glare. "You're corrupting my father?"

"It's only grain," Gale remarks with a shrug. He takes another sip from her mug, then adds, "Henry and I are on a tight budget."

_Henry? He's on a first name basis with my father_? Madge feels certain that the room has started to spin.

"They played for money or odd trade items in the Hob," says Mr. Undersee jovially, clearly enjoying whatever trivia Gale's been giving him. "Sit down, Madge, we'll start over for you."

Madge sets her shoulders. "I came to get you from the community center," she says accusingly to her father.

Mr. Undersee blinks up at her. "Oh yes. I forgot to tell you that I changed plans to meet Gale for a drink."

"A drink?" Madge cries. She looks at Gale to confirm this. "The two of you…together?"

Gale shrugs. "Early start to the weekend."

"Sit down, dear," Mr. Undersee presses, "you're holding up the game."

Madge drops into a chair, too surprised by the whole thing to think clearly. Gale passes over a pile of dry wild rice, which he or her father pilfered from the box in the lazy susan in the corner cabinet. Mr. Undersee pushes the board toward the center of the table, which is really a pencil sketch of ten squares on a piece of butcher paper, six squares intersected by four others to look like a double dagger **‡**. Each square has a number written in no particular order from two to twelve, with number four missing.

"Everyone puts a grain of rice on seven," Gale explains to her. "That's the Hob."

Henry and Gale each place a grain down and Madge hesitantly follows suit. She regrets that she can't strategize on her toes, because she has no idea how to posture herself for this strange, familiar interaction with Gale. She remembers the advice that her friend had given her on previous occasions, but she doesn't think it applies well to this situation. Besides, she'd end up apologizing again and she _did _promise a truce.

Madge dispenses with the advice and decides to try being…civil. That might unnerve Gale as much as his presence at her table unnerves her.

Gale passes her two dice. "Youngest rolls first."

"Why?" she asks despite herself. The general rule is to pass the dice widdershins, not by age.

He shrugs. "That's how we always played at my house or else Posy threw a fit." At the confusion in her eyes, he adds, "That's my little sister."

"Oh." Madge bites her lip, trying to think of something polite to say, and that's about all she can think of. It's easier to be civil with him outside of the office, but she still has to censor herself. "I thought you had brothers."

"I do," he answers. "Rory and Vick."

"Oh." She mentally kicks herself for losing her ability to articulate. Why is she allowing Gale to ruin her composure like this? In her own apartment, at her table and with her father? She should be disconcerting Gale!

Something like humor passes over Gale's face like he can read the struggle on her face, but it disappears so quickly Madge is sure she imagined it.

Mr. Undersee clears his throat, reminding Madge that she has the dice. She hastily scoops them up and rolls a four.

"Now what?" she asks.

"Nothing," says Gale with a smirk. "Four's a pass."

Madge fights the childish urge to stick out her tongue while passing Gale the dice. It's not as though she asked to be included in this silly game. Gale's calloused fingers brush against hers, leaving a warm trail behind them as he takes the dice. She snatches her hand back and hides it in her lap. Gale doesn't seem to notice. He rolls a five.

"The player puts a grain down on the tile if it's empty, like five is right now," he tells her. "But if rice had been there, I'd get to take it, instead."

She nods distractedly.

Mr. Undersee rolls a ten and puts his rice down on the empty tile. Madge rolls a seven and almost takes the pile from the Hob. Gale stops her, gently grasping her wrist. She's startled by the second contact but praises herself for not pulling her hand back. He tells her that if someone rolls a seven, they have to put rice into the Hob. To win the pot, a player must roll a twelve – the tile that has Peacekeeper written across it. His voice sounds casual, as if the touch didn't startle him like it startled her, leaving her even more confused about her reactions to him.

The game brings out Madge's competitive side, though it's difficult to defeat Gale in a game of chance. If they were playing Hazard, or another strategy game, she'd cream him. Most likely. Maybe. She hopes.

A half hour departs with Madge hardly noticing, engrossed in the interaction between her father and Gale and the game. Her dad is acting more lucid and like himself than he has in years. He rolls a two – the lucky goat tile – where the player gets to take all the coins on every tile except seven. Gale taunts him for winning so much rice, making her father laugh. Madge feels a spike of jealousy toward Gale for being able to resurrect this side of her father when she has struggled just to keep his spirits up. Add that to the confusion of the situation of Gale being here at all. She figures Gale is the last guy who'd get along with her dad – seeing as how her father was the upstanding mayor of Twelve and Gale was a poacher and miner, the resentful dregs of District Twelve society. And since District 12 was the armpit of Panem, there really wasn't much lower to go.

So, naturally she can't wrap her head around her father's odd company. And although they've called a ceasefire, she and Gale still aren't friends. So why did he show up here today after several days of nothing? What could he possibly mean by it?

"How does the game end?" Madge asks, putting her rice on the empty ninth tile, really wondering when Gale will decide he's spent enough time with them and go away. She pushes the dice toward him with fingertips.

"When everyone is poor," says Gale, dusting all the rice from the Hob into his heap after rolling a twelve. He's oblivious to how the word "poor" suddenly makes the Undersees squirm in their chairs. "At least, when it's played with money. We continue this until a player rolls a Peacekeeper and robs the Hob."

Which Gale just did.

Mr. Undersee sits back in his chair with a contented sigh. He glances at Madge across the table. "Dinnertime, I think," he suggests. "Madge, I've asked Gale to join us."

Madge nearly falls out of her chair. "What?" she gasps.

"If you don't mind," Gale says, issuing a challenge as he observers her carefully through those steady gray eyes of his.

Madge grips the edge of the table to keep from falling or hitting someone.

How can she possibly say no after her father already issued the invitation? What is her father trying to do to her, anyway? Ruin her life? Things were just starting to look up for a second time and now Gale's injecting himself into her life again – with her father's help!

"Madge, my medication is making me faint. I'm going to take a short nap," Mr. Undersee tells her, rising from his seat. She can tell in an instant that he's lying. It's insulting, considering that he'd been a diplomat and spent his entire career lying smoothly. "Wake me when dinner's ready."

Madge can't even manage a nod as her father abandons her with Gale Hawthorne, her unexpected and unwelcome dinner guest. She stares blankly in the direction her father went until she realizes that Gale is watching her under hooded eyes. She turns her head to look him directly.

"Well?" she asks.

"He invited me over after I met him on Level 4," Gale explains. "He seemed lonely. I offered to teach him a game."

Madge leans heavily on both of her elbows, messaging her temples and hiding behind her hair. "He's supposed to be at the community center on Level 2," she mutters. "He wouldn't feel lonely if he'd stay where he's supposed to be. There are many lovely men and women his age to talk to."

"Yeah, I don't think he likes it there," Gale remarks offhandedly, "which is why he ditched and went to Level 4 with me."

Madge's irritation flares as Gale pretends to know what's best for her father. "He needs supervision."

"He needs to feel like a competent human being, not a baby," Gale argues.

Madge sets both her arms down on the table and promises herself to keep them there instead of pulling his hair, like she's tempted to.

"Gale, when you start running after him at three in the morning after answering a phone call from Security; or when you come home to him almost burning the apartment down because he left something on the stove and went to take a nap, then you can start judging my methods for caring for my father," she says coldly.

"Fair enough." Gale gets up from the table, moving deeper into the kitchen. Madge rises to follow, wondering what he could possibly be doing.

"Sit," he orders.

Madge pauses and feels a familiar flash of irritation at his dictatorial tone. She stays standing. "You can't order me around in my own kitchen."

An amused grin flashes across his face, then quickly disappears. He starts poking around in her cabinets, pulling out a saucepan and skillet. At some point, Madge knows, she's going to have to intervene and stop him. She just can't figure out when that is.

And then she sees something truly horrific.

"What is that?" she demands, pointing at the range top and the slightly rusted, dented appliance steaming on the backburner.

"Percolator," Gale replies.

"What is it doing here?" she gasps through bloodless lips.

Gale shrugs. "I gave it to your dad."

"Are you insane?" They'll be dead in a week, she estimates.

"Makes better coffee," he offers in terms of an explanation. Then he surprises her by opening their fridge without asking. Her fingers itch to wrap around his bossy, interfering neck.

"What are you doing?" she asks suspiciously.

"Making dinner. Real food." He pulls out bags of groceries she certainly didn't buy.

"I beg your pardon," she scoffs, watching with growing dismay as bag after expensive bag materializes on her counter.

"Your dad told me today that you live on grilled cheese and canned soup," he says with a hint of censure.

Madge crosses her arms. "What's wrong with that?" she demands. After all, it's the only thing she knows how to make tolerably well. "And where did all these groceries come from? Did my father buy this?"

Mr. Undersee can't have. Madge doesn't give her father that much pocket money. A horrible suspicion makes Madge wish she had a chair beneath her.

Gale ignores her and starts washing, then chopping vegetables on a cutting board he fished out of a bottom cabinet. He moves with a speed that makes her fear for his fingers. He throws the vegetables in a pan with oil while she looks on, at a total loss and aware that she's lost control of the situation – and probably never had it to begin with. Gale stirs the vegetables, then he starts cubing meat he pulls from a different bag. She watches closely, hoping to remember this for later without letting him know what she's up to.

Gale notices her scrutiny anyway. "Want to try?" he asks, holding out the knife handle.

Madge steps back, as if from a snake. "No…I'd probably just mangle it. I'm not very domestic."

"You never had to be before now." Madge's face closes off, so Gale tries a different tack. "What did the two of you do all these years? You can't have lived on grilled cheese the whole time."

Madge's eyelids droop at the renewed jab at her signature dish. "I worked as a waitress up until two years ago. I just brought home leftovers from the restaurant. And before that we had…" she blushes and avoids his eyes.

Gale starts cutting again. The staccato clip of the knife against the cutting board offers pleasant background noise for gaps in the conversation. "Had what?" Gale asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"Food stamps," she mumbles.

"All the refugees were on the ration tickets, Madge," he says a little more sharply than he means to. "Before that, we had tesserrae."

"I don't want to depend on anyone else," she retorts defiantly. "Certainly not the government."

"La-di-da for you," Gale chants. "Sometimes you don't have a choice."

Madge glares at his profile while he washes his hands, then starts applying spices to the meat that make the inside of her nose burn. She thought he'd be more understanding about her position. Gale can't have enjoyed taking out tesserrae – especially with what he had to forfeit.

He adds the meat to the skillet of vegetables to brown. The aroma of sautéing vegetables and spicy meat fill the apartment.

"Here," Gale says, nodding toward the grocery bags. "Start opening cans and drain the liquid. You can't screw that up."

Madge makes a face at him, but does what he says. It's true. She can't screw up opening cans. She digs around in the grocery bags, finding diced tomatoes and beans.

"What are you making?" she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Beaver chili, minus the beaver," Gale replies. "Hawthorne specialty."

"So what's that?" She points at the meat.

"Beef. Not as fresh, but it works."

Madge has no basis for comparison, so she keeps quiet and works on draining the tomatoes. Mr. Undersee appears at the end of the counter closest to the living room, to the relief of both Madge and Gale.

"Smells wonderful in here," he breathes.

Mr. Undersee spends the interim asking Gale the particulars of the recipe and to write it down for Madge while she dutifully dips the tomatoes and beans into the saucepan. She doesn't appreciate the request.

Eventually Madge's numb brain wakes up enough to set the table and pour glasses of water for everyone. Her father sets himself at the head of the table. He chats with Gale about the different establishments to visit on Level 4, only remembering that he wasn't supposed to be there at all when he sees the sour look on Madge's face.

"Sorry, my dear," he says humbly. "The book club selection this month is a romance."

Madge sits down in a chair and puts her head in her hands. _Of course it's a romance_, she thinks bitterly. Didn't her father look around the center to see what other programs and groups they offered? Why couldn't he have said that after Gale left? Why can't he keep the depths of her culinary and familial incompetence between the two of them? She's surrounded by traitors.

A bowl of steaming beaver-not-beaver chili is set between her elbows, where she's still hiding her face. The savory aroma fills her appreciative nose. She gazes at the dark concoction through her fingers.

"Thank you," she mumbles as Gale sits next to her. He slides her spoon closer to her bowl.

Madge dips her spoon into the chili and cautiously lifts it to her lips. She blows on it to cool it down, then takes a bit. The spices make her lips burn, but the flavor isn't like anything she's had before. Across the table, her father attacks his bowl, though his eyes are streaming from the spices. The Undersees tended to eat plain food back in the day and with Madge's cooking skills, that hadn't changed.

"This tastes pretty good, son," says Henry. He blows his running nose on a napkin. "Don't you think, Madge?

"It doesn't taste bad," she remarks coolly. In truth, it's probably the best homemade meal she's had in this apartment.

Gale smirks, so Madge figures he knows as much. Either that or he's amused by her inability to say something truly nice to him, ceasefire or not.

At the end of the meal, Mr. Undersee pushes what amounts to his fourth bowl away, grabs a jacket and makes for the door with sincere thanks thrown Gale's way.

"Dad, where are you going?" Madge cries, twisting around in her chair in the direction of the door.

"Oh, just for a walk," he says halfway out the flat. "I need to burn off this good food."

"But…"

Gale gets up, but Mr. Undersee waves him back into his seat. "You two catch up. Don't mind me."

They're ganging up on her, Madge realizes, with a stutter in her heart. Her father and Gale. Whether they know it or not, they're in cahoots to wreck her mental and emotional health.

Madge rounds on Gale as soon as her father isn't in danger of reappearing in the doorway to catch her bad manners.

"What are you doing here?" she snaps, venting her spleen and suspicion on Gale. "First board games with my father and now dinner?"

"Does that bother you?" he asks coolly. His long fingers fiddle with his spoon, as though he can channel his restless energy into it.

Madge frowns, though she dials down the accusation in her voice. After all, she should be grateful that she has one night off from her dismal attempts at cooking. "It's confusing me."

"Well, when I came to see you last weekend I noticed that your sink had a slow drain, so I stopped by to replace the pipe a few days ago," he tells her candidly. "Your dad was still home and we got to talking. No need to thank me, by the way. It was no trouble."

Madge thinks back with alarm to when she drained the cans into the sink. There hadn't been any standing water. How had she not noticed? Of course, she'd been busy, but…

"I'm not a charity case," she huffs to vent her frustration.

Gale's lips curl under. "Of course not. Let's just say that I have a lot of time on my hands and call it a day?"

"But…"

"I thought we agreed to a ceasefire?" he points out, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, scrutinizing her with cool, gray eyes.

Madge's hands flutter uselessly in front of her as she grasps for coherence. "This is a little more than a ceasefire, Gale."

Her hands fall uselessly into her lap. He shrugs, gazing around the kitchen. Madge doesn't know where his thoughts are going, but she bets it's somewhere critical.

"You know, I'm surprised your boyfriend doesn't help you out a little more," he muses with a definite quirk at the corner of his mouth.

Madge's face closes off completely. Ever since that disastrous evening at the Broken Oar, Gale keeps bringing up her boyfriend. If he hadn't initiated the ceasefire, she'd assume he wanted to provoke her. Now she figures he's just being nosy to amuse himself.

"Don't tell me that it's over?" His eyebrow lifts in a challenge.

"Of course not. We just haven't, um…" Madge blinks furiously, biting the inside of her lip.

"What?"

"Well, it's a peculiar kind of a relationship," Madge snaps. Admitting that makes her angry – for feeling embarrassed to admit it, and for Gale prying into her personal affairs. "It's really none of your business, Gale. I certainly don't expect him to wait on _me_, that's all," she says haughtily. She refuses to acknowledge that she still hasn't met the man.

Gale laughs darkly. "Heaven forbid anyone help you. Rich mayor's kid shouldn't have to owe anyone."

After throwing his old job as a miner in Gale's face at the Broken Oar, she probably deserves that, but it still makes Madge angry. She's not the mayor's kid anymore and she certainly isn't privileged. In fact, she takes pride in her hard work and hates it when anyone tries to chalk it up to privilege.

"We're in serious danger of ending this ceasefire right now," she threatens through clenched teeth. Someone as proud as she believes Gale to be should understand how difficult it is to her to feel dependent on others. She hates how he makes it sound like a fault.

Gale nods. They sit in uncomfortable silence, Madge wondering when he's going to give up and go, and why he's bothering to linger in the first place. And then she realizes. _Of_ _course_. Suddenly the meal doesn't settle well in her stomach.

"How much do I owe you for the groceries?" she asks crisply, reaching behind her for her purse hanging off the back of her chair.

Even though she doesn't want to be his pet project, for some reason the alternative – Gale waiting around for her to pay him back – disgusts her. She sets the bag on the table, reaches for the zipper only to grab for thin air.

Gale swipes her purse, leaning away from her to set it out of reach on the other side of the table near her father's chair. Madge leans forward in a futile gesture to get it back.

"Don't," he growls.

Gale gives her the stink eye when he straightens up, which she takes to mean that she's insulted him. Okay, she feels a little badly for assuming the worst about him, but then, what else was she supposed to do? Not offer to pay him? Did he really believe that she would feel okay freeloading off of him? She's the one with steady employment, after all.

Ugh. How can she go from resenting him for thinking he wanted payment to resenting him for not wanting payment? What is it about him that kills her ability to reason?

"Gale, _honestly_. You have to let me chip in for some of it, at least," Madge presses, getting up to snatch back her bag.

Gale blocks her by standing up, startling her with the immediate proximity of his body. She steps back, but not before she registers the warmth radiating from him. And how does he still manage to smell like he stepped out of the woods?

Without deigning to reply to her insistence the she pay him for the groceries, he stacks their bowls on top of each other and then collecting the silverware. But before he can remove them to the sink, Madge snatches them out of his hands. He blinks at the empty space where they used to be, not expecting her to make that move.

"You made dinner," she says quickly, when he looks like he's going to protest. She skirts around him before he stops her again. "It's only fair."

She wonders when clearing the table and washing dishes around here turned into a competition. She throws the dishes in the sink, turning on the hot tap, testing the temperature of the water with her finger. She rinses the bowls, then she bends down to look for the dish soap under the sink, but can't find it. She stands on her tiptoes to reach in the overhead cabinets, wondering if her dad attempted to do the dishes for once and left them in the wrong place. There's nothing there. She turns and nearly bumps into Gale, who's standing only an inch away with a new box of soap flakes.

"You ran out," he says blandly.

Madge makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat, though she accepts the box and adds a measure of soap to the water. He's going to be the death of her.

"I'll dry," he offers.

Madge rests both palms on the edge of the counter. "Really, Gale, you've done too much already," she sighs. _Please go away_.

"Like I said, I have plenty of free time."

Madge rounds on him, horrified, as she receives another inspiration. "Are you here to make me feel guilty that you're out of a job?"

Gale's eyes sharpen dangerously, sending a thrill through her. "Number one," he says coldly, "I told you I don't care about the job. Two, stop trying to figure out my motives…because you won't."

Madge's eyes widen, she backs away from him, dripping water on the floor. "So you _do_ have motives for being here," she says with alarm. Irrational fear spikes through her chest.

Gale's eyes roll back into his head as the few remaining threads of his patience snap. "Sure. To warm the cockles of your heart."

Madge relaxes slowly. If Gale's resorting to saying absurd things like that, then she's probably safe from being strangled to death in her own kitchen.

"How you lie," she mutters as she scrubs the cutting board Gale used.

"Think that, if it makes you feel better." He continues before she has a chance to process that. "I've got nothing better to do anyway."

"You _could_ be looking for another job," she chides.

"Nah." Gale takes the cutting board away from her to dry it before she can use it to hit him.

Madge shakes her head. "I don't understand you." She thought she did, but maybe not. The Gale in her head would go stir crazy if he didn't have steady employment. Then there's the problem of money.

She plunges her hands back into the scalding water, squeezing the sponge in the middle of the suds and then she furiously attacks the dishes. When she rinses them, she then hands them to Gale to dry. She's loath to admit it, but it's a bit pleasant – if she can overlook the fact that it's _Gale_ helping her with the dishes. Usually, it's just a one-person job.

"Katniss and Peeta just told me they're moving back to Twelve," Gale remarks after letting her work out some of her frustration into the soapy water. She doesn't realize that he's been cataloging the way the steam makes her cheeks flush.

Madge glances at him, then back at the suds. "That's right."

"Strange to think of them having kids," he observes.

Madge laughs. "Why? Didn't you get enough practice after Peeta's Quarter Quell announcement?"

Gale snorts. "I didn't believe it for a second."

"Oh sure," she replies. "You know everything."

Gale tries to look bruised, but it doesn't quite work. "I guess it'll be lonelier around here for folks from Twelve without them," he admits, giving her a sly look. "Our numbers are going down. You know, just Haymitch left and all."

"Well, Ruga still asks about you," Madge bluffs, unsure of what Gale's driving at. "So she's always an option if you're feeling lonesome."

Gale reaches into the sink and flicks foam at her cheek. Madge startles, having never been the subject of childish antics like this.

"You dare!" she gasps.

"I don't take teasing very well," Gale says with a look in his eyes like a misbehaving fox.

"Don't you?" Fortunately, Madge is a quick learner. She drops the bowl she's rinsing and flicks her fingers under the tap to send a stream of water toward his shirt. He jumps back on one foot, making a funny noise, but not before the front of his flannel gets soaked.

Gale tries dabbing the moisture away with the dish rag, but it's already saturated. He starts unbuttoning the remaining buttons and tosses the flannel shirt on the back of a chair.

"Chalk up one for your side, Brat." Something about the way he says her old nickname takes the venom out of it, but Madge can't quite put her finger on what it is. "Watch it though. I've only got the one shirt on." He plucks at the gray t-shirt. "Unless you want me to take this off, too?"

Madge rubs off the soap suds from her cheek. "You already offered once," she sniffs. "My answer stands."

Gale gives her an ironic smile, probably because he thinks she's missing out. Smug fathead.

"Did you ever consider going back to Twelve?" he asks, going back to original topic. She's proud to note, though, that he's hesitant to approach the sink again.

Madge hands him the bowl to dry anyway. "Why do you want to know?" she asks in return.

"I'm trying to figure you out," he admits.

Madge blushes. It's not a comfortable thought, Gale scrutinizing her, but she doesn't want him to think that she's cowed.

"Money," she says briskly, trying to blow a loose curl out of her eyes. "There's good work here. Not so much in Twelve – not for my particular skill set anyway."

At one time, Madge contemplated reopening her grandparents' sweetshop. She doesn't know how to make sweets, but she can run a business. She has no idea what use the community would have for it, however. She doesn't know if any of them can even afford candy since the ruined mines have all but shut down industry in the district. So, what's the use?

"But there's more, isn't there?" he asks over his shoulder as he puts a pan away that she gave him.

Madge shrugs, looking away from the view of his broad, straight back. "Can you imagine what it would be like for my dad?" she asks. "He feels like a failure enough without having a daily reminder of the firebombing."

"Your dad couldn't prevent it," Gale replies, giving her a measuring look. "But don't you think helping rebuild Twelve might counter his feelings of uselessness?"

Madge bites her lip, stopping to consider. Gale has a point, but it's not that simple.

"I don't know, Gale, it's not really an option for us right now. Moving requires money and I haven't had time to save anything yet," she points out. "Besides, you never went back, though you have more cause to return – after the way you helped so many escape through the fence. Plus, your family lives there. It's not like you're plagued with shameful memories, like my father."

Gale pauses, making Madge wonder how he likes it when the tables are turned on him.

"Fair enough," he replies lowly.

Madge hands him several spoons to dry. "Have you thought about it, though? Going back?" she asks, her curiosity piqued, especially in light of Katniss's and Peeta's upcoming move. "I mean, now that you're out of a job. Or are you thinking of traveling north again?"

Gale shakes his head. "No, I think I'll stick around here a little longer," he says, looking at her sidelong. "I have an…investment I want to look after."

Madge frowns. "Oh."

Madge's mind instantly shoots to the reason behind Gale being fired. By investment, does he mean that he's got a stake in the scandal or just that leaving would look bad for him?

"I've been looking at those files you left laying around," she says casually as her mind heads in that direction. She watches him out of the corner of her eyes to gauge his reaction.

Gale's head turns sharply to look at her. "Oh?"

She nods. "I wondered what was so important about them that you went to all the trouble of pulling them out of the cabinets and sorting them."

"And did you figure it out?" he asks. "The pattern, I mean."

Madge shrugs. "Not really. _Is_ there a pattern?" she challenges.

"There's nothing to look for, Madge," he tells her woodenly. "I'm not guilty."

That rankles her nerves. He must think she's stupid, or that she doesn't know him at all, if she believes that he could be guilty of such a thing.

"I know that," she retorts. "I didn't mean in connection to you."

Gale face grows dark. "You don't think I'm helping to buy bullets for Jabberjays?" There's a glint of frustration in his eyes.

"Of course not."

"So what are you looking for then?" He turns, leaning his hip on the counter so that he's fully facing her. "Or better yet, what do you think I was looking for?"

"You said there isn't anything _to_ look for," she points out, her voice rising just a smidge with the tension in the kitchen.

Gale studiously concentrates on drying a cup. "That's right. Just forget about it," he mutters. "I would've put those files back weeks ago, but that would require a level of intelligence and organizational skills I can't be bothered to tap – don't you think?" He gives her another one of his sideways glances, measuring up her reaction.

Madge purses her lips to keep in a one-liner, then says dryly, "We're not supposed to insult each other, remember? I won't let you bully me into it."

Gale's lips form a smirk for a second or two before he sobers up again. "Seriously though," he continues. His eyes are dark and solemn. "Don't try to help me. Haymitch and Plutarch are just putzing around. You have your dad to support, so I doubt you want to land on their bad side."

It's true. Madge has her father and herself to worry about. But rather than set her mind at rest, Madge can't help wondering why he's so unconcerned about letting her take his job and letting the accusations fly.

The conversation lulls as they finish the dishes, each lost in their own thoughts and observations. Gale takes the last bowl from her without another word and sets it on the top shelf in the cabinet. She's annoyed that he doesn't have to stand on his tiptoes or pull a chair over to do it. Madge wrinkles her nose in a pout while she lets the water drain down of the fixed sink, wondering why builders make kitchens for tall people rather than short.

She thanks Gale grudgingly for his help when he looks back down at her. Something in his face makes the fine hairs on her body rise.

He reaches out and she thinks he's going to touch her cheek, but at the last moment his finger points to the buttonhole on her shirt. "You know, I could sew that button back on your blouse while I'm here."

Madge clutches the top of her shirt where Gale's finger had been with her dripping, soapy hand. A strangled sound comes from her throat. "I think it's time for you to go."

Gale smirks, reminding her of how he looked in school years ago. "My mother was a laundress," he points out. "We learned how to help her with mending."

Madge blushes harder for thinking that he would possibly use her shirt as a means for hitting on her – why she'd ever be crazy enough to consider that he'd want to is beyond her. She's clearly losing her grip on reality. "My shirt will be fine without you," she chokes out.

It's true. It's probably much better off without him, especially since the water dripping from her hand has turned a strategic portion of the white fabric transparent.

"Suit yourself." He passes by her to grab his other shirt from the chair. And even though she wanted to get rid of him for hours now, he's suddenly moving too fast toward the door. "I'll see you around. Say goodbye to Henry for me – Oh, and Madge?" he asks as he grips the door.

"Yes?" she squeaks.

"I wouldn't wear that blouse around Junius too much, if I were you." Gale winks at her and disappears behind the door, narrowly missing the wet sponge Madge lobs at his head at the mention of Junius Trivet.

Unfortunately, Mr. Undersee isn't as lucky as Gale when not five minutes later he arrives back home and she assumes that Gale's come back to make another comment about her blouse. Her father receives the drying towel to the face in Gale's stead.

"Madge?" he gasps from under the rag. He snatches it off, giving her a wary look.

Madge's hands fly to her cheeks. "Oh!...Dad." She bites her lip. "Sorry…I thought you were Gale."

Mr. Undersee frowns. "I'm glad to see that you have both settled your differences," he says dryly, tossing the towel onto the kitchen table. "Oop!"

Mr. Undersee skids two feet across the tile floor with the wet sponge under his foot. Madge catches his arm before he falls, though they nearly both go down.

"_Madge_…" he chides, righting himself and steadying her.

Madge bites her lip again, hard enough to bruise. "Sorry?"

As her father retreats to the safety and tranquility of his bedroom, Madge tries to collect herself and process the evening. Of note, she realizes that Gale is a complete and utter nuisance, that his goal is to wreak havoc in her life, and that unless something definite happens, she's lost complete control over the situation.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N**: Chapter title taken from "Go Places" by The New Pornographers.

Rob the Hob is based off of a 16th century game called Gluckhaus, or "house of fortune." I gave it a little Hunger Games spin. Oh, and for the record, the percolator that Gale gave to Henry is the one he bought when he found Madge's ad. ;)


	16. A Vested Interest

**A/N: **Sorry for taking so long with this chapter! Thanks to the folks who checked to see if I'm still alive. I am. My graduate courses don't take a break for the summer, so I'm back to studying which doesn't leave much time for writing.

In the last throws of writing this chapter, I listened to "Freak Out" by Tapes 'n' Tapes, which is a brilliant song and seems to fit these two in this scenario. You know, in case any of you are making a playlist. ;)

_This chapter is for Solaryllis, who has been campaigning for Gale's furniture. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

**A Vested Interest**

* * *

><p>"You wanted to see me?" Madge asks as she steps into the darkness of Haymitch's cave-like office. The tangy scent of lemon tweaks the inside of her nose.<p>

Haymitch ignores her until he finishes slicing the tear-shaped, yellow fruit with his pocket knife on the desktop, plopping a wedge into his glass of sparkling mineral water. At least, Madge assumes it's sparkling water. He pinches his nose, lifts the glass to his lips and swallows a pull. She stifles a laugh at the way his face twists up in disgust.

When Haymitch pulls himself together, he taps on a manila envelope on his desk. "I looked through that whopping stack of applicants you left me," Haymitch grunts. "Take the envelope. Those are the prospectives I want you to do a background check on."

"Deadline?" Hopefully after her monthly report is due.

"Yesterday, probably."

Madge rolls her eyes and picks up the large envelope and starts to leave when he calls her back.

"Just a minute," he says, pulling something out of his shirt pocket. "Hang on to this envelope. I'm leaving for the day, but someone might be by later to pick this up for Heavensbee."

"What is this?" Madge asks as she grips the second envelope. It's a small, letter-sized one with the flap tucked inside. Haymitch glares at it.

"Receipts."

Madge opens the envelope and shuffles through all the thin sheaves of thermal paper. Most of them are for clothes, bills for a mobile phone account, and a various other personal items.

"What is all this? Are these yours?" Her curiosity gets the better of her. It looks like something for someone's personal accounts, not the sort of receipts their agency would file. Perhaps Haymitch wants to hide his expenses from Effie? But then why would he give the receipts to Plutarch?

"Not mine." Haymitch takes another drink. "Gale Hawthorne required a loan after he began working for the agency – which is, of course, confidential," he drawls ironically. "These are the items that he purchased under the supervision of Effie Trinket."

"A loan," Madge repeats incredulously. Then she remembers Junius referring to Gale's tailoring bills, which never really existed. He must have meant these receipts for shirts and suit clothes.

"What, you think he came dressed up like that?" Haymitch jibes. "Part of the provision of this loan is that he had to stay with the agency for six months to cover the expense. And since he was let go after three, he either owes the difference or the agency must repossess the items listed on the receipts."

Madge blinks at the envelope as her chest tightens. It makes her mad that the agency is heaping one more thing on Gale after Heavensbee unjustly fired him.

"And what does Plutarch expect to do with these, then?" Madge asks curtly.

Haymitch shrugs. "Give it to security, if he wants. They can collect the goods."

Madge balks. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"It's better than he deserves," says Haymitch with relish, "the wretch."

Madge imagines what it would feel like if security busted into her apartment unexpectedly and tried to haul off her possessions. Isn't this the sort of tyranny they fought a war to end?

"I disagree," she replies mulishly.

Haymitch's eyebrow hitches up on his forehead. "Bully for you."

Madge clutches the doorknob and considers tearing out of the door and chucking it at Haymitch's salt and pepper head.

"Oh, and Madge, get rid of that shirt you wore yesterday. Terry kept trying to calibrate the water cooler instead of the copier," says Haymitch. "Distracted all day."

Madge forgets the doorknob and briefly allows herself the fantasy of strangling Haymitch with that very shirt, which she feels heartily sick of hearing about. How is it that some women can strip down to barely anything and nobody says a word, but if she shows a _little _cleavage then she has to endure the censure of both Gale _and _Haymitch. It's not any of their business anyway, she mentally blusters.

"Anything else?" she asks dryly.

"Nothing comes to mind."

Madge bites her tongue before she says something unprofessional. She makes a quick exit from his office, her stomach roiling like she just ate roadkill. She bumps into poor Terry, who apologizes profusely for getting in her way when it's her fault for bulldozing into him. Madge blushes and mumbles something incoherent because, thanks to Haymitch, she knows about Terry's weakness for her…blouse.

"Is everything alright?" Ilona asks from her desk, interrupting something Junius was trying to tell her.

"Fine," Madge mumbles, closing the door to her office behind her.

Madge's shoulders relax a little, but her stomach still hurts. She reaches her desk and throws the small envelope into the top drawer and plops the larger manila envelope into the mesh inbox on the desktop.

She collapses in her chair and rests her head in her hands. The blouse comment embarrassed her, but that's not the main problem. Ever since Gale came back to Thirteen, she's had to face other people's decisions that have left her uncertain about how to act. In the past, she'd looked forward to using her new skills, but now they don't seem to mean as much to her as they once had. Not if it means she's going to mind her own business and let her superiors treat her un-enemy…her friend?...with such disrespect.

Or worse – her knowledge of the envelope and situation makes her complicit.

Gale deserves better. The thought startles Madge, but she knows it's true. How she came to the conclusion is hard to discern. Not a few weeks ago she wanted to push him down the incinerator.

The trouble is, Gale's been so nice to her lately – and she's horribly susceptible to nice – once she got over the suspicion that he wanted to make her feel guilty or that he wanted to strangle her for getting his job. He makes her feel out of control, which she doesn't like. But, after reflecting on it half the night while she got more and more tangled in her sheets, she realized that she feels like someone's shouldering the burden of her father with her.

Even though she wishes she could make her dad forget his guilt instead of Gale, it's better that _someone _can. Maybe that's going too far or assuming too much. For all she knows, Gale has no intention of visiting her father ever again.

The thought makes her stomach hurt more. She'd hate to admit this out loud to anyone just yet, but she kind of feels like he's the champion her dad needs. And maybe the one she needs too.

Which is _horrible_. Horrible like the way the cuckoo lays its eggs in other birds' nests and the other babies get pushed out horrible. She's not supposed to be thinking about champions or how satisfying it felt to drench Gale with the sink water, or that sometimes feeling flustered by him is a good thing.

These aren't the thoughts and feelings of a woman who is in love with someone else, Madge scolds herself. She's very happily dating…a mailbox.

And then Madge wonders if Gale knows she enjoys…no…feels mildly intrigued by flirting with him. Horrors. No, he probably wouldn't pick up on something like that, she tells herself. Hopefully.

A tap on her door interrupts Madge from her "work." She looks up to see Ilona in the doorway, wringing her hands and looking harassed.

"What is it?" Madge asks, getting up from her chair.

"There's someone to see you, Madge." Ilona glances over her shoulder. "Mrs. Heavensbee. She wants to talk to Haymitch but he isn't here."

Madge swallows. Johanna Heavensbee rarely steps foot in this office, to the relief of the employees. The woman has a reputation for her intensity. Even though Madge is close friends with two victors and works for a third, she has a background with them apart from their roles in the Games. Her knowledge of Johanna stems almost entirely from her clever, bloody strategy in her Games and what little she heard of her various breakdowns during the war.

And, of course, her scandalous elopement with a man three times her age.

"That's all right," Madge says bravely. "Tell her I'll see her in here."

Madge barely has time to say that before Johanna Heavensbee pushes past Ilona, rolling in like the heavy air of an approaching thunderstorm. The tension catches Madge off-guard. She grips the edge of her desk with one hand, anchoring herself against the eccentric, if not volatile, woman she knows more by reputation than personal experience.

Contrary to rumors, Mrs. Heavensbee arrives fully clothed in an aggressively feminine knee-length dress with a full swing skirt. Madge always thought that Johanna Heavensbee made a striking figure, with that cat-like eyes, pert tilt of her lips and the short crop of brown hair. She has a slim figure that made her look taller than she really is. But something always stopped Madge from finding her truly beautiful. Maybe it was her wide-set, chocolate eyes? Chocolate that wants to _eat you_ after carefully flaying off all of your skin.

Madge has experience falling under the heavy gaze of intense eyes. But with Gale and Katniss, it's more of a live-and-let-live, we're fine until you get too close, simmering kind of animal intensity. With Johanna, it's like she's goading people into falling under her ax.

Fortunately, Madge has a method all her own and she's not afraid to step behind her frosty mantel when she senses hostility. She may not have been a victor or a soldier, but she won't let herself be intimidated. She volunteered as a member of the bucket brigade during the war. That meant she and a few others were in charge of evacuating an entire floor if the Underground fell under attack. If someone didn't want to cooperate, she got to hit him with a bucket. That took a certain amount of grit to move panicked people into some semblance of order…with nothing but a bucket.

Johanna casts a critical eye over the tiny office, then over Madge. Ilona backs out of the doorway looking relieved when Mrs. Heavensbee waves her away. Johanna steps forward, which makes Madge instinctively want to take a step back. Yet she holds her ground.

"I'm Johanna Heavensbee." She extends a bony hand with a tracery of scars over it. Despite her polished appearance, her hands are calloused and her grip nearly crushes Madge's fingers.

"I know," Madge replies, freeing her hand. "We met briefly at an agency function when I first began my internship."

"Oh." Johanna takes a seat in the chair in front of Madge's desk, arranging her skirt over her knees.

"How can I help you, Mrs. Heavensbee?" Madge asks, cautiously lowering herself into her chair. Sudden movements seem inadvisable.

"I'm here for the packet of receipts my husband requested Haymitch route to him."

Madge bristles at the idea of Plutarch sending his _wife_ to do his business, particularly when it means she most likely knows more about Gale's business than she has a right to. But what can Madge do but hand the receipts over?

Madge pulls her desk drawer open and lifts the envelope. She reluctantly places it on the edge of her desk. Johanna snaps open her purse and tucks the envelope inside. Madge notices the hint of a smirk on her lips and wonders what she could possibly find so amusing.

"You look green," Johanna points out when she closes her purse with a _snick_. "I seem to evoke that color when I'm around people who don't know me…and also in people who do."

Johanna's candor makes Madge thoughts skitter away. How can she politely reply to a bald-faced statement that Johanna makes people uncomfortable – it's certainly true!

Madge settles for a guilty, "I'm a little surprised, that's all."

"By what?" The smirk lengthens.

Madge tries to even out the planes of her face so she's neither smiling or frowning. "Given the confidential nature of those receipts," she cooly shrugs. "I'm surprised that your husband didn't come himself."

Since Madge has to take care of her father, Madge knows she shouldn't risk criticizing her superior to his spouse, but if the last few months have proven anything, it's that her temper impairs her judgment. Between the unjust firing and the breach to Gale's privacy, her blood is simmering.

Johanna laughs. "Confidential? A few receipts?" she snickers. "Compared to what I know about Gale, this matter amounts to nothing."

Madge swallows, but her throat still feels too dry. "What do you mean?"

"We have a history." Jo gives her a smug smile loaded with implications. "Gale and I."

"History?" Madge asks before she has the sense to button her lip. But _history_ is such a vague, awful word with tawdry overtones – at least the way Johanna uses it.

Jo gives her a look that makes her stomach feel like its curdling. "We were together. You know, I was his last girlfriend?"

Madge's eyes widen. She feels herself bristle and at a loss to define the emotion. Is it remotely possible that she felt a spike of jealousy just then?

Madge leans heavily against the back of her chair. Yes. To be perfectly honest with herself, she felt a distinct surge of negative, somewhat possessive energy.

"How interesting," Madge replies blandly, looking anywhere but at Johanna.

"I don't suppose he talks about it," she remarks slyly. "It happened several years ago."

"It's none of my business, Mrs. Heavensbee," Madge sniffs.

Johanna laughs, a cold sound in the back of her throat, amused by Madge's priggish adherence to manners.

If he likes women like Johanna, that's his misguided business. Madge does take into account, however, that Johanna Mason Heavensbee has a history of deceitfulness, if her Games proved anything. She might be bluffing. Or exaggerating. Or just trying to amuse herself. Madge can hardly blame her if it's the latter. Madge would pick on other women too, if she were married to Plutarch Heavensbee.

As Johanna rises from the chair, she adds, "It's a shame things turned out this way with the agency. Gale only came back because I asked him." She pauses, then looks at Madge, "Not that I had any idea he'd take a criminal turn. I hope it wasn't from his past heartbreak. I'd feel so responsible."

Jo shows herself out while Madge seethes behind her desk.

_As if! _She wants to shout at the back of Johanna's head. Gale has to have more sense than to regret a stupid cow who threw herself at a man three times her age.

"Ugh." Madge gets up and paces the tiny space, throwing a mental tantrum where she can rant as loudly as she chooses.

That woman had no right to violate Gale's privacy like that. The impertinence, Madge tells herself, bothers her the most. And then there's the injustice of robbing Gale of his job, then taking away his _clothing_ and anything else he might need. She seriously doubts the humanity of the people she works for.

That's when she makes up her mind to tell Gale. Plutarch wouldn't bother himself to collect the items on the receipts and she wants to spare Gale the indignity of security guards surprising him in order to rifle through his possessions.

And if she happens to do a little sleuthing about his current feelings for a certain ax-murderer – the supposed reason for his return to Thirteen – well, that's another thing.

…

_Dear Friend_,

The pen slips off the page, causing Gale to smear ink on his fingers. He curses under his breath, crinkles up the paper and throws it away.

_Dear Friend,_

_Look, I think we better try again._

Scratch. Gale draws double lines through it.

_No, I'm not angry_.

_Yes, I'm angry. _

_Let's call the hole thing of._

_I cant get you out of my head. _

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

"Forget it," Gale grumbles, casting aside the blotted paper. He's not sure he knows what he's pretending to be anymore, let alone the objective behind keeping up the correspondance. His head feels like it's full of cotton and rags whenever he tries to answer Madge's letter. Her second one, that is, since he stopped by her apartment while she was sick.

He's going to have to kill off Dear Friend. Somehow. It's ironic that the one obstacle between Madge and him in a steam-filled kitchen when he wants to kiss her happens to be himself. And he _wanted _to kiss her. Her lips were red and she had a fleck of foam on her cheek he could've wiped away with his thumb, leaned over her and…

Yeah, he could've kissed her, but then she'd hightail it out of the kitchen, because in her mind she's already taken. He can't let his body start making decisions for his brain. Not that Gale's been able to stop that from occurring in the past. He can tell Madge weakens toward him with each new advance into her territory, but the prospect of meeting this imaginary guy gums up the works considerably. Which is why Gale's looking forward to the demise.

He wonders how he should do it. Return to sender notice? A nasty letter from Dear Friend's wife? Nothing too tragic. Something that would keep Madge from regretting the man, while leaving her wide open for him to swoop in.

The door buzzer makes Gale jump. He mutters another oath as he pulls himself up. He kicks the wads of paper under the couch, then heads for the kitchen. At the last second, he remembers to take off his communicuff, which he's not supposed to display. He forgot once already, and Katniss said it made him look like a tool.

Speaking of Katniss.

Gale opens the door cautiously in case she somehow found out that he introduced himself to Henry Undersee and wants to scratch his eyes out because she doesn't approve of his plan. Besides an occasional meeting with Haymitch, she's the only person who ever stops by his place.

There is a distinct lack of Katniss on the other side of the door. Gale's eyebrows hitch upward a fraction when instead he sees a cool blond with a medium build, dressed in work clothes and glancing nervously down the corridor instead of watching the door. Her fingers twiddle with the zipper pull on her jacket up by her throat. For a moment, he's afraid if she pulls it up any higher, the teeth of the zipper will pinch her skin, leaving an unfortunate mark that someone, say her father, might misunderstand. Having met Henry, Gale would rather give her father something real to worry about. It would do Undersee some good.

Gale opens the door wider to stand on the threshold while her head is turned, wondering if he should gallantly meet her in the neutral territory of the corridor or take the advantage for himself by inviting her into his den. Then Madge turns her head back to face Gale, eyes round like blue willow saucers, looking like she's been caught playing ding-dong-ditch and forgot the ditch part. He decides neutral territory would be a waste of his time.

"Oh…hello," she manages, as though they just bumped into each other by coincidence in the candy aisle at the drug store. "I didn't know if you'd be home."

"Where else would I be?" Gale asks. Besides laying in wait for her on her own turf, amusing her father and generally casting himself underfoot.

Madge bites her lip and he realizes that whatever part of her mind cooked up this visit, it hadn't considered the most basic of social elements: the conversation. More importantly, the one she'd have to have with him. Either that or he's managed to stun and addle her simply by appearing.

He prefers the latter thought.

"I don't know," Madge fumbles, now honing in on some invisible yet interesting view down the opposite side of the corridor. "You tend to spring up in places where I don't expect you."

"I guess we're even, then," he replies. Sort of even. Gale has the advantage of strategy and information, which at the moment he's unwilling to share prematurely. "Coming in?"

Madge steps around him uneasily. He's still standing in the doorway, so she has to turn sideways and squeeze past him. Her shoulder brushes his chest, the coarser fabric making a soft zipping sound against his t-shirt. He steps inside after her. The door shuts on its own while Madge peers at the sparse surroundings. She precedes him into the living room, glancing around with her mouth set in a confused frown.

She bends to lift the corner of a plastic sheet to look at the couch beneath. "There's furniture under here," she remarks, straightening up. "Did you know?"

"I had a hunch, but figured I'd leave the plastic alone."

Gale folds his arms and leans against the wall, noticing the way her jacket cinches around her waist. Much more interesting than the couch. He wonders if his hands can span the width and how much she'd hurt him if he tried it right now. Probably a lot. Her screeching alone would split his ears. Still, he chalks a few points up on his side because she's here in his apartment of her own free will. Bets are off on how long she'll stay, though.

The gloating subsides.

Madge's lips form a loose O. "Why?"

"I don't have to wipe my hands before I sit down," he jokes, revealing inky fingers. "So what brings you?"

Madge stares intently at something on the carpet while she explains. "I wanted to give you a heads up about a packet of receipts the office received for over $2000 worth of suits and other items." She looks up at him guiltily. "I was told that Effie Trinket authorized several purchases for you. On a loan?"

"That's right." He points at the ragged hems of his corduroys. "This is business attire where I used to work, but apparently rips and mud stains don't cut it down here." Which is funny, he thinks, because this place is essentially a hole.

Madge's fingers start tangling together as her discomfort grows, probably recalling the last time she mentioned the clothes the office paid for, and well, money's always an awkward subject. Gale rolls his eyes then reaches out his hand to envelop both of her little ones. Madge stiffens the way she always does when he touches her on purpose.

"Stop," Gale chides. "You're driving me nuts." He lets go of his hands and they fall by her sides.

"Sorry."

"Go on," he coaxes. "What about the receipts?"

"Since the listed items are the property of the agency and you don't work for us anymore…well, if there's an audit, someone may be coming around to collect everything. I thought you should know," she adds.

In about the same amount of time it'd take Gale to scoot under the fence back home, he realizes what Haymitch is up to. It's Gale's fault, he realizes, since he filled Haymitch in on Madge's budding interest in Gale's innocence and also his special project. Nobody intends to take the clothes, just to distract Madge and deepen the ruse that Gale has a connected with the Jabs. He isn't surprised that Haymitch would pull something like this, but Madge's need to inform him didn't make the list of expected behavior. He might have made more progress than he thought yesterday.

Which, oddly, means Haymitch knows what he's talking about when he's giving out advice. Which is enough proof that the world is a screwy place.

"I can't believe Haymitch would allow this to happen," she continues, shifting on her heels between the coffee table and the couch. "It's not as though Plutarch paid these expenses out of his own pocket."

"A loan's a loan." Gale shrugs. "I hate those monkey suits anyway. You can take it all now, if you want."

"Me?" she gasps. "I don't want your clothes."

"Then why'd you come?" he asks thickly. "Did Haymitch put you up to this?"

He wants to hear her tell him honestly that she's choosing to seek him out. For what it's worth.

"No," Madge replies, her voice a little flat to quash the embarrassment in it. "He doesn't even know I'm here. I just stopped on my way home. I wanted to give you the courtesy of knowing, I guess." Madge lifts her chin in the air, daring him to keep asking for a motive while hoping to put him off.

Gale studies her chin. It is a good chin.

"Also, Mrs. Heavensbee came by for the receipts," she blurts out.

Gale's face screws up with confusion. "Jo?"

Madge purses her lips in a scowl at the familiar use of her name. "She did it as an errand for Plutarch."

"Yeah, she does that once in a while," says Gale, scrunching the hair on the back of his neck.

"How do you mean?" Madge asks, barely controlling a shrill note in her voice.

"She came in person to hand me Plutarch's job offer."

Madge's eyes narrow knowingly. "Well, she seems to think, along with Haymitch and Plutarch, that you don't deserve any notice," she mutters.

"But you did."

Madge nods.

And there it is – Madge looking out for his well-being _and _feeling jealous. Gale allows one corner of his mouth to lift in a show of pleasure. Madge fixates on his lips for a moment before catching herself.

"Thanks," he says. Then he remembers his manners and gestures at the furniture with a lazy wrist movement. "Sit down, if you like."

Madge takes a halting step away from the couch, like she can't remember the next cue from that script in her head. Either that or she realizes she'd have to walk past Gale to get to the door.

"You knew her, didn't you? Mrs. Heavensbee," she asks casually, avoiding the plastic covered couch.

Gale backs himself further against the wall.

"We dated." Gale blinks, then realization closes in on him. "Did she mention something about it?"

"Mention? She flaunted it in front of me," Madge grouses, her color heightening.

"Flaunting, huh?" Gale says smugly.

Madge purses her lips. "Stop smirking, you idiot."

"Does it bother you? What she said?"

"I'm not bothered in the least," Madge grumbles. "I just don't like her."

Gale shrugs. "She's not so bad, once you get over the initial edginess."

Madge _hmphs_, which tells him that he gave the wrong answer to a question she didn't ask.

"Is there something else you wanted to know?" Gale asks guardedly.

Madge bites the inside of her cheek, a little pucker showing just below the corner of her lip.

"She said you came back to Thirteen for her," she mumbles.

The statement startles Gale so much, he bursts out laughing. Great, booming laughter, hard enough to crack a rib. He slides down the wall a few inches, cradling his torso in his arms. What could Jo possibly be up to?

Madge weathers the laughter with stoic dignity and hooded eyes until he can compose himself.

"Am I to understand by this outburst that you have a different take on your return?" Madge asks dryly.

Gale wipes his eyes. "Yes, Undersee, you should," he manages to reply. "Jo's full of it."

"I see."

"Anything else she said? I haven't been this entertained since…who knows."

Madge looks torn between irritation and relief.

"I should be going…" Madge pauses and seems to wrestle with her thoughts. "Unless…nevermind." She ducks her head and slips past him into the kitchen.

Gale pushes off the wall, a few steps eating up the floor between them. His hand hovers by her elbow.

"Unless what?"

Madge stares at the door but her body language says she's more aware of his hand, the way she almost curves around it, her arm slightly distended from her side so he could just slip his fingers around it and pull her back from the door if he wanted.

He repeats the question.

Madge fiddles with the zipper pull again. "Um. This is really embarrassing." She sighs, looking at her toes again – an annoying habit she's picked up lately. He preferred it when she barked at him compared to this shyness. Besides, he can't take advantage of her when she won't fight back.

"Would you mind teaching me how to sew?" She hastily adds, "If you have the time."

The request takes him by surprise, but then, he did just offer the day before. Though he had an ulterior motive for it.

Gale runs his fingers through his hair, thinking. "I can't do much," he admits. "Just buttons and patches. My mother's the mending expert."

Madge looks up with an eager light in her eyes. "But that's all I need," she says brightly. "I mean, you offered to fix my one blouse, so I thought you could maybe show me instead. Then I can do it myself from now on."

Gale stands transfixed by the sudden change in her demeanor from shyness to enthusiasm. Over a chore? Yes, he offered to fix her shirt _as a medium by which to flirt with her._

"Why not buy a new shirt?" he asks.

"Well, it's expensive and wasteful," she sniffs, as though surprised and a touch scornful that he wouldn't guess that. "There's nothing _else_ wrong with it."

Gale stifles a grin. He makes a show of deliberating over the request, scratching behind his ears and squinting at the ceiling. Off the record, the shirt has too many buttons. At least when the two of them are alone. When Madge looks like she might implode, he relents.

"Alright, I'll show you." He scratches his jaw, trying hard not to imagine how Bristel will crow when he hears that this is how Gale spent his second non-date with Madge Undersee. That takes all of the fun out of it.

"Thank you."

"Forget it."

They stand there awkwardly, while Madge watches him. She delicately clears her throat.

"How do we proceed?"

"I guess I should find something to fix," Gale mumbles. "Wait here."

He leaves Madge standing in the kitchen while he returns to his bedroom, striding past the made bed and the damp bath towel he used that morning crumpled on top of the comforter. Hazelle would have ignored that fact that her son actually made the bed to scold him for leaving a musty towel on it.

Gale throws open the door to his closet and studies the clothes inside. The clothing chart that Effie made for him, which links color to time of day, event and then by piece, swings back and forth on a hook. Most of the costumes Effie forced on him hang in a pattern of colors, from black fading to silver. The chart is the only reason he looked put-together at work every morning.

He wonders again if Haymitch really wants the clothes back or if he's goading Madge to keep up the firing ruse. He pulls the communicuff out of his pocket and sends Haymitch a brief message:

_You may take my clothes, but you may never take my freedom._

He tucks the cuff back in his pocket. Then Gale grabs one of the vests from the blue patch in the middle and retrieves the miniature sewing kit from his dresser drawer. The cuff vibrates and he has to juggle the items onto one arm to retrieve it.

_Are you drunk?_ it reads.

Gale snorts, types in _yes,_ and returns the cuff to his pocket once more.

He rearranges the clutter on his arm and leaves the bedroom behind. When he strides into the living room he stops short at the sight.

Madge took off her jacket at some point and draped it over a kitchen chair. She's wearing a simple gray dress with a belt around the waist. In his absence, she cleared the coffee table and one of the armchairs of their plastic sheets and formed a pile of neatly folded tarps on the floor. The sewing kit slips from his fingers and he fumbles to catch it before needles and thread spill all over the floor.

"What are you doing?" he chokes.

Madge casts a critical eye over the still-hidden furniture. "If I'm going to stay, I'm not sitting on plastic," she tells him.

Before he can stop her, she unearths the couch. There's a crunching sound when her shoe steps on one of the notes he kicked under there. She stoops down to pick it up. Feeling himself in a pinch, Gale takes a few stiff steps toward her but his knees barely cooperate.

"I found this," she says, holding up the crumpled paper for him to see.

Gale stops in his tracks, waiting to for her to read it. His dry mouth pops open but no words come out. All she'll have to see is _dear friend_ to tip her off and then he and his plans will be shot to hell.

An urchin grin spreads crookedly over Madge's face, reminding Gale a little of Posy. His body language must radiate his discomfort, because her demeanor changes and her reserve melts away.

"Love letter?" she teases.

Gale's throat closes up, though he's rapidly moving into the realm of numb acceptance that the gig is up. Let it happen. He's armed with a sewing kit and a vest, though they may be little match for her two inch, pointy cheaters when she finds out that he's Dear Friend and that he's kept it a secret from her for several weeks.

Madge laughs softly, oblivious to Gale's rapid-fire thoughts. "Nevermind. I can tell by the look on your face that it's personal."

Gale reaches for the paper while she's still too polite to peek at it. He delicately uncrinkles it to see what she might have read. He breathes out a laugh when he recognizes the handwriting.

"'s alright," he says almost giddily like Vick at Christmas. "From my mom." He should probably stop making a habit of kicking paper under the couch. He forgot about this letter and returns it to Madge to read. Let her a taste of what Hazelle Hawthorne's is like.

_Wanted_:

_Young man, tall, narrow and strong of build. A moody, silent type to replace a beloved first-born who disappeared into the ether. Contact heartbroken mother. Applications accepted until the position is filled. _

_H.H. _

Madge's head lists to the side in confusion. "Does she always write like that?"

Gale scratches the top of his head with the vest's hanger. "I keep forgetting to write her back. I think she's getting desperate."

"You don't strike me as the letter-writing type," she admits with a bland smile, handing the paper back to him.

"When the occasion calls for it," Gale mutters, shoving the paper in his back pocket.

He sets the clothing and kit on the table and helps Madge clear away all the remaining tarps. A stock geometric pattern emerges in blues and greens within the fabric that looks like it would be at home in an elevator or doctor's office.

Soon, he's distracted from that near scrape with the paper by the transformation of the living room. The place looks homier – like a real place to live instead of a storage unit. He feels like he wouldn't recognize the flat if he'd just walked in and found it like this. He'd assume it belonged to someone else and walk out again.

Madge smiles proudly at her handiwork. "Well?"

Gale digs his hands into his pockets, pivoting on his heel to look around again. "Looks nice."

"I don't know how you could stand it before," she remarks, taking a seat on the couch. "It looked like a warehouse in here."

Gale shrugs. He kind of likes warehouses; they remind him of the Hob.

Madge kicks off her shoes and makes herself comfortable. "So, what are we working on?" she asks gamely.

Gale sidesteps the coffee table and joins her on the couch. There are three cushions, but he cheats and sits on two halves, putting him closer to Madge without looking too obvious. He picks up the vest to show her.

"But none of the buttons are missing," she points out with confusion.

"Easy fix." He tears off the top button, causing Madge to make a sound somewhere between a sharp inhale and a screech like a dying owl. The sound nearly splits his ears. "What?"

Her face is white like an eggshell. "That's a $175 vest," she gasps after a few false starts. "I read the receipts."

Gale shrugs. "You're paying for the brand name, not the material," he points out. "I only broke the thread and that costs pennies. These are your typical plastic, flat buttons – also cost pennies." He proceeds to tear off the remaining four buttons. He glances up at Madge. "Still with me? Or are you going to have the vapors."

"I don't get the vapors," she retorts with a sniff. But the sight of the broken threads lying limp on the fabric make her look queasy.

"Just checking." Gale sets the vest down on the strip of couch between them and carefully places the buttons on the coffee table. He grabs the sewing kit and opens it up.

First things first, he gives Madge the scissors and has her clear away the old thread while he matches the new thread to the fabric. Then he measures out a span to thread the needle. Once he finds the spot where the first button should go, he shows her how to make the knot on the back of the vest so it won't show, then to make stitches to anchor the thread where the button will go. He lays it flat on the fabric, realizes it's upside down, and flips it over.

"Hand me a pin, would you?" he asks, barely turning his head at all. Slowly, she's scooted a little closer to see better, so that if he turned all the way, his nose would brush her cheek.

"Which one?" Madge leans forward, putting some distance between them while she looks through the myriad pins in the kit, some with safety clasps and some without.

"Straight one."

She picks one out and gingerly transfers it to Gale's fingers without dropping it or stabbing someone. He notices her hesitation and chuckles.

"It's hard to sew if needles make you nervous," he remarks, bringing the needle up through a hole in the button.

"I stepped on one once when I was a girl," she tells him with a shiver.

"Too bad," he replies. He grew up with yard filled with broken glass, rusty metal and rotting boxes. A few needles were the least of his worries. "Now, the thread is anchored; we've got the thread through the button, so we're going to sew over this pin to space the button from the fabric."

Madge nods once. "Got it."

Gale brings the thread over the top of the pin and brings it down through the opposite hole, like he's sewing onto the vest too. He does this several times, then moves on to the second set of holes in the button.

"That's done," he says. "So we make another knot in the back of the fabric." He shows her how to pass the needle back through the threads to keep the button in place, then form a loop to tie off the final knot. Gale removes the flat pin, then tugs gently on the button to snug the threads.

"Alright. Your turn."

Madge accepts the vest, letting it pool in her lap while she mimics Gale's steps, cutting a length of thread, passing it through the eye of the needle after squinting at the darn thing for much longer than he had to.

While she clumsily fiddles with balancing the button, the fabric, the flat pin and the needle, he asks, "So, why the sudden interest in sewing? You didn't seem so keen on it when I offered the other day."

Madge's ear, the one he can see, turns pink. "Haymitch said…well…"

"He commented on the missing button," Gale helps.

"I wanted to die," she groans, cheeks flushing.

Gale reaches across her lap to anchor the pin with his finger so she can actually get to sewing some thread around it.

"It's just Haymitch," he soothes, ineffectively.

Madge's nose wrinkles up in disgust. "Just Haymitch? Would you want to know that he was able to see down your blouse, whether he wanted to or not?"

Gale shrugs, letting go of the pin now that she's gotten a few loops around it. "I offer to take off my shirt all the time, but nobody gets excited."

Madge gives him a sour look which he takes to mean that she doesn't enjoy humor at her expense, then quietly works her on button. Her fingers shake a little and it takes her longer to bring the needle back up through the fabric and to find the buttonhole.

Gale notices her eyelids start to droop. Sewing's a quiet, repetitive chore and it looks like it has the same effect on her as it does on him.

"Like this?" she asks, making another loop.

Gale leans closer to inspect the button. "Well, don't overdo it. Just go around the set of holes maybe five or six times otherwise the button looks sloppy."

"Right." She starts on the second set. Her lips part and he can see that she's biting down on her tongue while she concentrates on keeping the thread from knotting up when it passes through the fabric, or from stabbing herself. He concentrates on watching her, but it still catches him off guard when she looks up at him suddenly and notices him staring.

Madge looks away quickly, then gets attacked by a yawn which she tries to hide behind her hand.

"Stay awake, Brat," he warns, using her nickname. It has the desired effect of getting her attention.

"You'll have to keep me awake – talk to me," she tells him. "What have you been doing to keep busy?"

"Stuff."

Telling Gale to talk generally has the opposite effect on him. Suddenly he can't think of anything to say, like his brain ceases to be.

"Like?" Madge prompts.

"Er."

_Like writing you letters. Waiting for a rebel to show himself_. Boring stuff, except for the times he spends with her father or her. Except today he didn't see Henry because he spent most his time outdoors.

Gale nudges aside the sewing kit on the table so he can kick his feet up. "I went out hunting with Katniss for the first time in, well, years. I guess Peeta had to go give a lecture on fondant or something at a baker's convention."

Madge chances a glance at him and smiles. "That's wonderful. It must have been like old times," she says encouragingly.

_No, not really_, he thinks.

"Sure," he mutters instead. "Except we didn't get anything except a couple of squirrels. Most of the game knows to stay away from Thirteen and her bodyguards won't let her go far enough into the woods."

Madge clears her throat. "Have you looked for a job yet?"

"No."

"Why not?" She sets down the vest to give Gale her full attention, which makes him uncomfortable. Especially when he has to tell her a whopper.

"Er, I'm working on my resume." He mumbles something about skill sets.

Madge nods, turning back to the vest and trying in vain to correctly place the needle to pass it up through a hole.

"So, what else can you do?" she asks through gritted teeth as the needle comes up in the middle of the left breast pocket.

"I don't know." Gale slumps into the couch, wanting to discuss the job he doesn't need to find about as much as he'd like to tweeze the hairs off of a badger, which could range from boring to lethal.

"Well, you can sew buttons, hunt, cook…" she lists.

"Braid hair."

Madge's eyes wide in surprise. "You can?"

"I helped raise my sister," he points out quickly.

Madge smiles. "Well now, you're just a regular housewife, Gale," she drawls. "Maybe you should forget about a career and just get married."

He grunts, not trusting himself to use his words. He likes it when she's playful, but it makes it harder not to blow his cover.

"Oh, don't look so sour," Madge chides, misreading him. "If a girl stood in your shoes, you know someone would give her that kind of condescending advice and not think twice about it."

Gale glances at her sidelong. "What, you don't want to get married?" he asks, with a sense of déjà vu.

Madge stares hard at the vest. "Of course, I do. But I want to use my talent, too. Homemaking and marriage aren't all there is."

"I guess not."

Madge suddenly curses under her breath, making Gale wonder what he said wrong. She drops the vest in her lap, and he realizes she pricked herself. She inspects the skin, then quickly pops the tip of her finger in her mouth for a second.

"I must be getting too sleepy," she says when she takes it out to inspect the broken skin again.

Gale takes back the vest from her. "That's enough practice. I'll finish this up. You can watch for…technique."

Madge snorts gently, the first time he's ever heard her do that. He wonders if his Seamly ways are having a negative influence on her good manners.

"Technique," she says with a bit of skeptical laughter in her voice.

Gale looks down his nose at her. "Yes, technique. Now pay attention."

"Alright, Professor." Madge turns her body to face Gale, curling her legs beneath her, resting her head on the back of the couch.

Gale ignores the ironic epithet. "You don't hold the needle just any old way," he lectures, raising the needle up for her to see as far as the thread will allow.

"Is that so?" she mumbles.

"And with those long nails of yours, you can use them to hold the button in place instead of the fleshy part of your finger, so you won't prick yourself as easily." He demonstrates, showing how the needle goes through but hits his nail instead.

"Mmm-hmm."

Gale rambles on about the various techniques behind buttons, zippers, and even a little about patches. He makes some stuff up along the way too, but figures she'll spend very little of her life mending. Most likely that will be _his_ job.

Gale accidentally pulls the thread out of the needle as an invisible siren in his head starts to blare _long term thought, long term thought_. He reminds himself to back up because he should not receive long term thoughts popping into his head that easily. They are not anywhere near long term right now. Yes, he made friends with Henry and he's got Madge here on his couch making friendly conversation, but that's no excuse to start doling out domestic duties.

Gale clamps down on any kind of thinking that isn't mechanically linked to his task. He finishes sewing the two remaining button in this mental stupor, knots the thread and cuts off the excess string.

"There. $175 vest good as new." Gale turns to show Madge their handiwork, but she's fast asleep with her cheek pressed against the side of the couch. "Huh."

He puts the vest on the table and gently turns himself toward her on the couch.

"Madge?" he murmurs. Her body stays relaxed and her breath steady. Gale swallows a lump in his throat. Her hair fell over her shoulder at some point. A strand of it got caught in the soft sweep of burnt gold eyelashes.

Sleeping people are often described as looking younger, but Madge has a youthful face anyway, he reflects. Except for tired eyes and the frown he grew accustomed to while they worked together. But the frown's gone. She's not smiling in her sleep, but there's a weightless buoyancy to her lips that sets them in some peaceful inbetween. If he'd ever seen her asleep before now, he's pretty sure he'd never have the heart to say half the things he's said to her in the past.

Gale carefully drapes his arm over the back of the couch where her head rests so he can lean closer. His fingers gingerly pick away the strand caught on her eyelashes. She's completely still.

He inhales slowly, trying to make up his mind about what to do. Probably should wake her up, but he doesn't have the heart to when she looks so peaceful. He leans over and places a gentle kiss on her forehead. He pulls back, watching her eyelids flutter, half hoping they'll open and half dreading it.

It's a risky game he's playing. And though it seems like he's the only player most of the time while she's in the dark, it's not true. She's just as much of a figure in this, whether she knows it or not. If she woke up and caught him, would she run? Who would she see – the Gale who stole her job or Gale who helped people escape from Twelve? And would she stay either way?

Because when Gale tells her the truth, he wants her to kiss him, to feel glad that it's him. Not someone else. Because whatever he thought of her in the recent past, he knows now that he wants her to stay.

Gale pulls his arm back, giving her some space. He kicks his feet up, slouches down on the couch. Gale can sleep anywhere and in a matter of seconds, he's snoozing along with her.

…

A gentle earthquake on the couch cushions wakes him in the middle of a dream that involved him and Madge and tarps. He blinks blearily in the lamplight and realizes his dream had a root in reality as he stares at the upholstery. Then his gaze drops to his lap, where a warm leg – not his – lays draped across it. His eyes follow the line down to the ankle where his hand's holding onto it. He follows the line of the leg up this time. Madge is attached at the other end. He snatches his hand away.

She struggles to sit upright, withdrawing her limb from its perch on his lap. Her flustered fingers fumble through her hair while she blinks in the lamplight. She catches him watching her and blushes.

"I must have drifted off," she says through a yawn, "sorry about the uh…." She gestures toward his lap.

"Forget it." Gale starts to shrug, but the movement triggers a crick in his neck from slouching for so long.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You needed a break," he groans, rubbing the back of his shoulder. "I didn't mind."

She starts to stretch, then stops herself because he's watching her. She glances at the table. "Oh, you finished the vest."

"Yep."

She leans forward to touch the buttons. "Thanks for the lesson, Professor."

"Now who's calling people names?" he asks through a yawn.

Madge turns to smile at him. "You don't like that one?"

"Do I look like a professor?" he asks archly in his half asleep state.

Madge studies him until he starts to feel like he should wipe his mouth or something. Her eyebrows dip together and she withdraws her gaze.

"Maybe not the conventional type, but you aren't bad at teaching," she eventually allows.

"High praise."

Madge exhales through her nose, as if to brace herself. "You did a fine job teaching me to sew," she corrects.

"Progress." Then he adds with a half-grin, "Someday you might like me as much as Henry does."

Madge laughs resignedly. "I don't know if that's possible. Now that he has your help ganging up against me to get out of going to the community center, he thinks you're the best thing there is."

Gale shrugs. "I might be."

"Well, I should go home," she tells him while she scoots off of the cushion. "I've taken over your evening."

Gale's reluctant for her to go, but he walks her to the kitchen knowing it's best for both of them. And he's already gotten more than he thought he would out of today, recalling the feel of her nylons under his palm.

"Goodnight, Gale," she says as he helps her on with her jacket.

"Night."

Madge slips out the door, pulling her jacket closer around her shoulders. When she's gone, Gale leans against the door, quickly going over everything that happened since he let her into his quarters. He smacks himself in the forehead.

"Too close," he says, thinking about the scribbled notes she could have found, which are still under the couch.

Gale returns to it and pulls out the paper again. He reads the scratched out lines, reflecting on how she almost found out. And how bad that would be if she found out _by accident_. He's got to prime her for the truth.

And it's got to be soon.

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><p><strong>AN:** Many thanks to Shar, Ella, and other anonymous/non-PMing folks who review this story. Cuddles on the couch with Gale for everyone!


	17. Deus ex Machina

**A/N: **Any remaining typos belong to Gale. He's really awful at editing.

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><p><strong>Chapter 17<strong>

**Deus ex Machina**

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><p>After Madge leaves, Gale slinks off to bed, peeling out of his clothes and throwing himself under the covers. Madgeless. Planless. Sleepless. With phase one complete, winning the hearts and minds of the Undersees, he needs to bolster his efforts for a second phse. He scrapes the inside of his skull half the night for ideas, but they all pose too much of a risk of traumatizing Madge or possibly resulting in a person injury to himself.<p>

When Gale finally drifts into unconsciousness, he dreams that his post office box bit his fingers off when he reached in for one of Madge's pink envelopes. Then it started ringing at him – which turned out to be the phone.

The call comes around 4:30 a.m., waking Gale from his short doze. The sheets are knotted up by his ankles, leaving his bare chest and limbs cold. He kicks his feet free. With one hand he rubs some life back into his face, eyes and scalp while the persistent ringing echoes through the bedroom. With the other, he picks up the mobile phone on his nightstand after scrabbling blindly for it and grunts into the receiver.

"We have a target."

The guttural voice isn't one he'd particularly want to wake up to at night, but Gale bolts upright in bed, fully awake.

"When our other operative tags him, a signal will go out to your cuff. Got it?"

"Haymitch, who—"

But before Gale can ask for the target's name, the line cuts out. He blows out an exasperated breath and falls back against his pillow, pulls the sheets back over his body and proceeds to stay awake.

If they've found the the guy responsible for organizing supplies for the Jabberjays, that means the successful completion of the mission is nearly upon him. For the first time, Gale contemplates that he really will be out of a job and out of excuses for staying in the Underground. He swallows despite how tight his throat becomes and stares into the darkness of the room as it presses in on him. Time's growing short.

…

In the afternoon, Gale schleps tiredly through a promised gaming day with Bristel and Henry. At what point he got the bright idea to introduce the two of them, he can't remember. It's not a chore, but he's already been awake for ten or so hours and a growing sense of doom makes his shoulders stiff.

They've lingered at the Broken Oar past the lunch crowd. The waitress, someone other than Ruga, keeps disappearing for long periods into the kitchen. A dark-haired woman in a security uniform and a man with wild hair, which resembles the color of his fruity alcoholic beverage are the only other customers left. Gale vaguely remembers the guy, but it's hard to tell from the angle where he's sitting. They're bickering over a plate of fried ravioli. The sharp pitch of the woman's voice reminds Gale of the confrontation he's likely to have with Madge. She'll flay the life from Gale's body – or she'll try to anyway – if she finds out he not only broke her father out of the senior room at the community center again, but also introduced him to Bristel, liquor and gambling in one fell swoop.

Gale wished he'd seen this flaw in his plan – frolicking down the line of Horrible Ideas from snatching her promotion to corrupting her father. All on top of the brilliant deception behind the letters. If Gale had a middle name, he bets it'd be _sucker_.

But having someone as talkative as Bristel around takes the pressure off of having to entertain Henry for extended periods of time. Gale might not have Haymitch's deficiency in charm, but he's no Caeser Flickerman.

Anyway, Henry's happy to chew on peanuts and let the younger men out-drink him and win Madge's loose change. Madge can't blame that disposition on Gale – he just provided the means.

"Another round?" Bristel asks with a sunny grin. He signals to the waitress peeking out from behind the kitchen door. She drags herself behind the bar with a frown and reaches for whichever tap she touches first to bring them another pitcher of beer. Oblivious to how badly he's inconveniencing the wait staff, Bristel pulls out a few more coins from his thin wallet, eager for more drinking and more gaming.

Henry cracks open another peanut from the red basket pushed off to the side of the table and says, "Sure," mimicking Bristel's easy drawl (probably without realizing it – probably). "You in?" he asks Gale.

Gale reluctantly places a coin on the seventh tile for Rob the Hob then glances at his communicuff under the table. A green dot appeared this morning around nine a.m., blinking its way around different quadrants on the cuff's interface. It's stayed put for a few hours now, but every time Gale looks at the dot, a shot of adrenaline makes his heart pump. His instinct to pursue the hunt hasn't changed, even if his target has. Animals to people. Only in this hunt, it won't result in a kill. Although, he's hoping to get in a few cracks to the jaw, at least. Jabs deserve worse.

But he's got to quash the desire to run after the target until he's given the word. So he drinks beer, rolls the dice when it's his turn, and listens to Henry and Bristel make small talk.

"So, Hank," Bristel's voice breaks into Gale's thoughts as he dangles the dice in front of his face. Hank? Gale snatches the dice away and rolls. "Gale here says you have a daughter."

Bristel winks at Gale over the rim of his stein as he lifts it to his mouth for a pull. He licks the foam from his lips and grins.

Gale shoots him a glare and puts a coin down on the sixth tile. Since Bristel knows about the source of the letters, they both have to be careful about what they say in front of Henry Undersee. Bristel's not the careful type, if his surplus offspring prove anything and Gale likes to keep his identity as Dear Friend a secret.

"I do," says Henry with a proud smile. "Margaret. Or Madge." He winks at Gale, who wonders why everyone keeps doing that to him lately.

"That's great," Bristel beams. "My Tansy and I have six daughters."

Henry's eyebrows lift. "That sounds like a fine family," he remarks diplomatically.

"They're a handful." Bristel shrugs and rolls a four. "Daughters always are, don't you think? My six year olds just got grounded for the first time. Tried to give one of the babies a bath in the toilet."

"Mine will ground _me_ if she finds out I'm here," Henry quips.

Gale watches the two of them rolling the dice and exchanging commentary on the perils of fathering daughters, feeling like he single-handedly created a monster. He gulps beer.

"Don't tell her I helped break you out of the center," Gale mutters.

Mr. Undersee glances knowingly at him over the rims of his glasses. "Oh, I can handle Madge. She just worries. But I haven't had fun like this in years."

"Gambling beats working any day," Bristel agrees.

"Until your wife finds out I won the jackpot every single round," Gale points out, rolling a twelve. He scoops up the pot, but the victory is tempered with the knowledge that he's taking money out of Madge and Tansy's pockets, and he'll use most of it to pay for several pitchers of beer.

Bristel grins at him, but says to Henry, "I think Gale should have a daughter. If he had kids he'd appreciate the risk. Right, Hank?"

Gale makes a sour face. Bristel's may be two years older than he is, but he's cronying up with the other dad in the group like he's some old fogy. And what's with the nickname?

Bristel lifts his glass to his lips so that only Gale can see his smirk. "But I guess that's a long way in coming. I mean, when's the last time you even slept with a girl?"

"Last night," Gale replies deadpan.

Bristel chokes on beer. Gale studies his knuckles, not sparing a blush for the blatant mislead. The raciest part of his evening was holding onto Madge's ankle, and he snoozed through most of that. But technically speaking, yes, he and Madge were both asleep last night. Together. On the couch. Even if nothing happened. The bottom line is that Bristel should know better than to tease him about how long he's been alone in the sack.

"But I thought…" Bristel blathers.

Gale shrugs. "I have needs."

Bristel's eyes zone out, the cogs in his mind chugging along slowly in a haze of confusion. He nods distractedly, mumbling something like, "Right on."

Henry clears his throat in a pointed manner, giving Gale a stern look. "Really?" he asks, eyebrows arching like his voice. "I thought Madge mentioned she stopped by your place last night. For sewing lessons, she told me."

Oops.

That's what he gets for twitting Bristel.

"_Was she?"_ Bristel croons, buoyed back to his jocular self by this new knowledge. He rubs his hands together slowly. "That's interesting because—"

"She came by, but not…" _Hell's teeth._ Gale backpedals as his gut drops out. It just figures that Madge would mention her whereabouts last night.

Henry folds his hands on the table, watching Gale stammer away with aggravating serenity.

"It's alright, son," says Henry. Despite the assurance, his tone sets Gale squirming more.

"It…is?" Gale feels a twitch in his left eye.

Henry nods. "Madge is a grown woman. Though I can't say I approve of the two of you sneaking around."

"No sneaking," Gale blusters. "That's all we did, Henry, sewing."

"Wild oats," Bristel coughs into his palm.

"So, you were visited by another woman?" asks Henry. "Is Madge aware that you're seeing someone?"

"Hell's teeth," Gale mutters under his breath. If he tells Henry that he's got random women cropping up in his flat, what are the odds that he'll drop the information in Madge's hearing?

Henry nods sagely, as though taking Gale's silence to mean that he's reluctant to confirm that he's been having illicit couplings with Madge – or someone else. Frankly, Gale would feel less guilty if they _were_ really sneaking around. At least they'd deserve Henry's censure.

"Naturally a young woman doesn't want to tell her father _everything_," Henry remarks. He holds his glass toward the pitcher near Bristel's elbow. "I think I'd better have some more of that beer. It's not every day I find out news like this."

"You think you know people, right?" Bristel shakes his head while he fills Henry's glass. "Friends snatching your daughters up. Shame."

"For the sake of some needs," Henry sighs, palming his forehead. He turns to Gale. "I hope you two were taking…precautions."

"Yeah, the _patter of illegitimate feet_ doesn't have quite the same ring to it," Bristel reflects. "Does it, Hank?"

Gale listens to the exchange with mounting alarm – and annoyance. His eyes lose focus as he imagines the scene when this gets back to Madge. They'll send his body home in a small box when she finds out that he suggested they slept together – in her father's hearing – and that the joke at Bristel's expense backfired on him horribly. His mother will have to use that advert for real.

Henry and Bristel start snickering into their beers, dragging Gale back to the booth. He eyes them through a glower.

"What?" he growls at Bristel.

"We had him scrambling," Bristel chortles, ignoring Gale.

"You were correct. He doesn't take teasing with grace," Henry replies, grinning to himself as he digs through the peanuts. Gale wonders when Bristel got the chance to brief Henry on all things Hawthorne, realizing that he's been had.

Henry turns to Gale. "Keep in mind that if you do start chasing my daughter's skirt, I expect to be asked for permission first."

"Huh." Hawthornes don't ask for permission – Rhys certainly hadn't – and it's beside the point. What's he supposed to ask? _Henry, next time your daughter's ankle lands in my lap, may I hold onto it? _Hell.

Henry ignores the dark cloud forming over Gale's head, fishing around in his pocket for change and coming up empty. "So, another time then?" he asks, like they didn't just hold the most awkward running gag on Gale.

"Make it next week. I'll have a paycheck," says Bristel, swiping peanut shells off of his pants. He gets up from the table and starts to pull a few bills out of his wallet to chip in for the tab, but Gale waves the money away. He should send Bristel home with _some _grocery money.

"Well, better go relieve Tansy. It's her turn to get out of the house for a few hours." Bristel winks at Gale again. "Sorry about earlier, but you walked right into that."

Gale curses him under his breath, which only makes Bristel laugh. Then he bids them goodbye and lopes out of the pub.

Gale slides out of the booth in a hurry to put some distance between him and Henry for a few blessed seconds while he takes care of the tab with the waitress at the bar. The girl's eyes quickly catalog Gale's physique, then she gives him a look that suggests she knows he's just been through the wringer. Though the service sucked, he throws in an extra coin for her tip on the simple merit that she's not Bristel or Henry.

Unable to prolong it, Gale squares his shoulders before he meets Henry by the doors, deciding to walk him to the lift. He wants to have a word with Madge's father before they separate for the day.

"Your friend Bristel is a pleasant fellow," Henry remarks as they leave the pub and join the throng in the Level 4 court. He has to speak up over the thrum of voices. "But six daughters. My goodness."

"Yeah," Gale replies absently, staring over the heads of the pedestrians. They tend to part around him without much goading, probably because he has a _move or be squashed_ air about him. "Look, Henry, I'm a little concerned about what your own daughter's going to think about all the money you just lost." He starts to hand back the leftover change he won, but Henry refuses to take it.

"I told you that I'll handle her," Henry boasts. Then he shifts the subject just a tad. "Madge is thinking about volunteering to play piano at the hospital on the weekends. Did she tell you last night while you were…eh…sewing?"

No, Madge kept that detail to herself, probably thinking he wouldn't care. And he doesn't care, at the moment. Not when he's trying to confront her father and weather his insinuations with grace. Which, as Henry pointed out, he's not good at. Gale shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to figure out the best way to respectfully put his elder in his place. He's not used to it. Given the choice, he'd rather confront someone like Haymitch, whom he can bawl out easily.

Plus, there's the hypocrisy issue. He's got to tell Henry that he can't just "handle" Madge, when Gale's been doing that all along. He eases his conscience by telling himself that his charade is for Madge's own good. Henry, on the other hand, is just being a hedonist….with Gale's encouragement. And Bristel's. Maybe if Gale spins it right, he can pin all of the blame on Bristel. Two-timer.

"There's no need for Madge to find out, anyway, is there?" Henry adds deviously.

"She's working awfully hard to take care of you," Gale points out as they trudge along with a gaggle of uniformed school children who just got out of class for the day. Gale narrowly avoids tripping over them several times as they stop to buy candy at different vendors. "I'd hate to add to her stress –_out of the way, kid_ – And you shouldn't add to it either. Maybe once or twice a week you should consider sticking around the community center."

Henry's eyebrows rise halfway up his forehead as he considers Gale's serious tone. "Ah, I suppose you're here to tell me that I've been taking it too easy and need to pull more of my own weight?"

"I'd put it a little more brutally," Gale admits, staring ahead at the students running away, "but yes."

Henry stops in the middle of the lane of foot traffic, causing Gale to stop too. A few people scramble to avoid running into them, muttering oaths and giving them the stink eye.

"And how's that?" Henry asks frankly.

Gale balks. Henry can't honestly want Gale to rip into him. "Um…"

Henry pulls his stooped frame up to his real height, which used to be considerably tall. He grips Gale's shoulder with his spotted hand. "I was mayor for almost twenty years, son – twenty years of people telling me what they thought I wanted to hear," says Henry with a rare, stern edge in his voice. "A little brutal honesty might be refreshing."

"It might not," Gale opines with a grimace.

"Perhaps," Henry allows. "But I drank my weight in beer this afternoon, so this is probably the best time, while my senses are dull."

Gale frowns at the joke. And he has the impression that Henry's not as dull as he'd like Gale to believe. Fine then. Fair's fair.

"You asked for it," Gale disclaims. He shrugs, then leads Henry toward one of the empty booths in the court for some privacy.

"I'll remember that," says Henry pleasantly.

Gale rubs his temples. "Look, I enjoy playing Rob the Hob with you. I know Madge won't like it – that doesn't mean we have to stop – but you can't just brush it off as another thing you'll 'handle.'" He watches to see how Henry's taking it so far before he cranks it up a notch.

"Go on," says Henry.

Gale starts cracking his knuckles without thinking. "Your daughter's working herself to the bone for a loser like Haymitch so that she can give you a comfortable life. She caters to your every need," he snipes, picking up steam. "When's the last time you helped her with the dishes you leave laying around? Yeah, it's been a shit couple of years, but that doesn't give you an excuse to sit back and live off of your daughter when it's your job as a father to take care of her."

Gale pauses to take a breath after rattling all of that off, looking for any sign that his candor's crossed a line. Instead of looking offended, Mr. Undersee has an amused gleam in his eyes, which fills Gale with cold dread.

Henry nods thoughtfully, tucking his arms behind his back. "You're right. I have neglected Madge. I've been selfish and withdrawn," he admits. "I _would_ reform, but I have a feeling she'll be taken off my hands soon."

Gale frowns. "That's a fine attitude." He can't tell if Henry's joking or not. The older man has a dry sense of humor that sometimes goes over Gale's head.

Mr. Undersee studies Gale, pursing his lips. He pulls off his glasses, cleans them, then slips them back on his nose. "You think highly of my daughter."

The observation – or frontal assault – takes Gale aback. After the joke Henry and Bristel played, Gale feels reluctant to talk about his attachment to Madge and put himself further under Henry's scrutiny. He scrambles to figure out what angle to play.

"I noticed you didn't deny that you were interested earlier," Henry points out.

"I wouldn't go that far," Gale denies quickly, wanting to wiggle out of the limelight and protect his secret. "I just don't think you're being fair to her."

"Do you love her?"

Gale's gut drops out. _Way to go for the low blow, Henry_. That's what he gets for forgetting that he's talking to an Undersee. They have a different brand of brutality and Gale feels all of his defenses rushing up. How does Undersee get off jumping from daughter snatching to love? Gale's body stiffens and his face closes off while he tries thinking of ways to avoid answering the question he's not ready for. How does he know Henry won't relay this conversation back to Madge?

Henry waits intently for Gale to answer and seems to find a growing satisfaction in Gale's silence, which only irritates Gale as the pressure builds. Suddenly, the crowded courtyard feels too empty.

"I have an inkling that you might," says Henry. "Pleasant as your company is, I doubt a young man like you has much interest in an old gaffer like me, unless you were in love with my Madge."

"In love with Madge?" Gale scoffs, hoping his dangerously narrowed eyes will convince Henry to drop the subject. It usually works, but this man has had President Snow breathing down his neck for years. He adds, "Any man who'd fall in love with your daughter ought to have his head examined."

Mr. Undersee folds his hands behind his back again, sticking out his paunch in a patriarchal manner that suggests Gale's angry eyes haven't the least effect.

"Then let me rephrase: Do you need to schedule an exam?"

"We're talking about you, not me," Gale mutters, swiping his fingers through his hair. He hasn't met a man who's made him sweat like this in ages. Not since Thread.

"Well, it's my responsibility as Madge's father to know these things." Henry tucks his chin against his chest and thinks about something. From the bland expression it could be about a corn on his foot or the grocery list. "You're right. I haven't been the parent she needs lately." He gives Gale a stern look. "As for you, young man, stop evading the question. Do you love her?"

"She drives me nuts."

"It's a simple yes or no question."

There are many simple yes or no questions – but this particularly question coming from a girl's father is _never simple. _And Gale's never talked to anyone's father before. Most of the girls he'd been with either didn't interest him enough or weren't interested in him enough. Or didn't have fathers. Gale resists the urge to tear his hair out as the mental rambling goes on. Henry looks content to stand there waiting while Gale sweats.

"I'm not in any hurry, young man."

Henry's patience snaps the last of Gale's in half. "Fine. Yes!" he explodes, "And if you say one word about it to her I'll string you up from the scaffolding."

Mr. Undersee doesn't blink at the idle threat. "And what do you plan to do about your feelings for her?" he asks calmly. "Surely you will have to tell her."

"Well, assuming I don't wring her neck, I'll probably ask her to go out with me one day," Gale says sharply, resenting Henry's ability to maintain his composure the more Gale loses his own.

Henry purses his lips thoughtfully. Gale suspects that he's enjoying this turn in the conversation, from the faint tugging on the corners of his mouth, which irritates Gale more. "I would prefer the latter, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, well, if you hadn't raised her stupidly she wouldn't be such a scamp." He decides to blame Henry for those three months of bickering, abuse and frightening shoes.

"You'll make an excellent son-in-law. I can tell already," Mr. Undersee replies, with humor. Then he adds, "You know, I don't think you'd like her half as much if she wasn't…what you call…a scamp?"

"Don't hold it against me," Gale grumbles, "I'm a little screwy myself."

Henry pats Gale's shoulder. "Don't let it get you down, son. Assuming she doesn't wring _your_ neck or run off with a letter-writing serial killer, she might agree to date you."

Gale blinks at the reference to a letter-writing serial killer. He tries not to reveal too much, but he has to ask, "Serial killer?"

Mr. Undersee nods unhappily. "I'm afraid she's developed some sort of attachment for a pen pal of hers. I thought perhaps you'd break that silly illusion of hers. In fact, I'm counting on it," he says earnestly. "I hoped that he ruined himself in her eyes by not keeping their appointment. That didn't happen, unfortunately."

Gale's eyebrows lift in surprise for the conclusion that Henry has drawn about Madge's "friend," and for supporting Gale's campaign to win her affection…even though he's not – if he knew the truth…which he can't know…bugger. Gale shakes his head to clear the fog that rolls in every time he tries to think about the letter situation.

"You think I'd have a chance?" he eventually asks.

"You've already given her 'sewing lessons.'" Henry says wryly.

Gale grits his teeth against a groan.

"You keep coming around," Henry suggests. "One-up him. Our showerhead's dripping – fixing that will open a door straight to her heart."

Gale shakes his head with a feeling of chagrin. "If she knew how conniving you are when it comes to getting jobs done for free, she'd have a conniption. I'm not really a plumber, you know."

"Strategy, young man." Henry taps his forehead.

"I'm beginning to see how you made it all the way up to being mayor," Gale mutters. "You're as scary as Madge."

Henry sniffs, very much like Madge. "I taught my daughter everything she knows. Well, except for her knack for personal insults. That's a method all her own." He shakes his head, looking exasperated for the first time since Gale confronted him. "Well, this conversation _has_ been stimulating. I think I'll take a nap. Tell your friend Bristel that we'll meet again next week if Madge…what is that idiom Bristel used? Ah, _ponies_ _up_ my allowance."

Gale gives in since his methods clearly didn't make an impression on Henry. He sees him to the elevators, watches them close on Mr. Undersee's misleadingly beatific face. It dawns on him that Henry just took him for – not one but two – buggy rides today. How a confrontation about Henry's neglect turned around to Gale revealing far too much about his personal interest in Madge, he'll never know.

"Damn Undersees," he mutters to himself.

But Gale grasps one nugget from the conversation like a gold piece in his hand. One-up himself?

Gale dashes for the stairs. They're slower, but he's got a sudden rush of energy to expend. And he's got one last letter to write. Maybe it's premature, but Henry thinks he has a chance with Madge. Gale figures if she can't stand him now, no amount of letter writing and smarming up to her dad will change anything later. Either she loves him enough in the letters to love him for real – the way he did with her – or she's going to go on hating him, and learn to hate the letters, too.

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

****_Thanks again for your reviews!  
><em>


	18. I'll Be The One You'll Never Know

**A/N**: Please insert your own misspellings into Gale's letter. The pain is too much for me. Also, lots of awesome points to folks who spotted Quintus and Nev in the last chapter. ;)

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><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

**I'll Be the One You'll Never Know**

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><p>Madge takes a deep breath before pushing the glass-plated post office door open, though it does nothing to calm the quick pace of her heart. The bell jingles as she steps through to the empty lobby. In the backroom, she can hear the clerk whistling slightly off tune. She digs in her purse to find the key for her box, coming up with a few lost hairpins and small coins before she finds it.<p>

Madge tells herself that she doesn't care one way or another if she receives a letter as she gets the little door open. But she glances up at the ceiling as her fingers probe the inside of the box. She'd rather not look at the empty insides any more than she already has.

A crisp, crumpling sound make her whole body tingle with anticipation as her fingers push against the thin pad of an envelope. _Maybe just a bill_. She snatches it out and recognizes the heavy hand of her address written with a dull pencil. Excitement starbursts in her stomach.

Dear Friend

PO Box 237

Underground, District 13

Her fingernail makes short work of the flap sealing the envelope and soon the letter lies unfolded in her hands. She reads it so quickly, she barely makes sense of the words except for a few choice ones.

_Try again_.

_Tomorrow night_.

Madge's whole body trembles with anticipation and relief. She indulges in a wiggly victory dance, fancying herself alone in the lobby. This letter _sooo_ makes up for grant writing late into the afternoon with Haymitch and his Bloody Mary breath.

But then she spots the Post Master's assistant giving her the fish eye and quickly drops her arms to her sides and stands stiffly besides the rows of mailboxes. He materialized by the racks of shipping boxes for sale without her noticing and seemed to be in the middle of restocking it when she broke out her moves. His round, smooth face makes him look about her age, with curly black hair overgrowing his head and an oversized polo shirt hanging like a bag from his pants. The sort of shirt one would wear if he did not approve of victory dances. She blushes, but smiles at him.

"Letter," she explains, holding up the envelope.

"In a post office?" the clerk replies glibly, adjusting his glasses over his nose. "It's a miracle. What will they think of next? Food in a restaurant?"

Madge's smile fades to a sour frown. Is it too much to ask that the world feel excited for her, just once?

"You're a jerk," she blurts out.

The clerk blinks, then swallows hard as his lip starts to quiver. He ducks his head and starts putting flattened boxes in the wrong cubby holes.

"Oh…" Madge pauses, then relents. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry." She touches her hair, feeling awkward. She never made anyone cry before. Not even Gale. She certainly said worse to him.

"Nobody's called me a jerk before. I'm not used to it," he sniffles.

Madge cocks her head to the side. "Really? Because you definitely come across as…" The clerk glowers at her. "Nevermind. I'm going." Madge scarpers out of the post office without a second glance, feeling embarrassed yet resolute that he deserved it.

She ducks into a service hallway just beyond the little sitting area surrounded by potted palm trees in front of the post office. Discarded items, like wilted plants, dented garbage cans and other debris line the walls of the hallway. It's almost like being back in Twelve, Madge reflects. At least it's private and doesn't smell like urine.

She unfolds the letter to read it again.

_Dear Friend,_

_I guess I should apologize for replying late to your two letters, but let's say one obstacle's cleared up and leave it at that. How about trying again? I'd like to ask you a question. Name the place and I'll meet you there tomorrow night at 8:30_.

_Yours,_

_DF_

Madge feels the victory dance starting in her hips again, but it's soon replaced with a sinking feeling in her gut. She shouldn't have provoked the clerk, because now she has to send a reply! Which means facing the weepy young man again.

"Dammit," she groans.

"Sorry, I'll go."

Madge gives a startled yelp and drops her letter. She spins around to see Gale leaning against a broken newspaper stand, partially hidden by a wilted tree. She hoped she wouldn't run into him so soon after falling asleep on his couch (and his lap) – at least long enough for him to mostly forget it ever happened.

The memory must be as fresh in his mind as it is in hers, because his narrowed eyes seems to see right inside of her, making her feel vulnerable, the way she did when she woke up and caught him watching her.

Not that it had been bad necessarily – not leering. Just speculative. It caught her off guard, which he seems to do a lot.

"Gale. I didn't see you…behind that palm tree," she says warily, taking in the tattered jeans and t-shirt he's wearing. She kind of hates how he looks good in whatever he wears. Except, she's startled to find that behind his careful eyes and the scruffy growth on his face, he looks tired. "What do you mean you'll go?"

He shrugs. "I thought that curse was for me." The corner of his mouth quirks up on one side. "Usually is."

"Sorry," she mumbles. "No, I had something else on my mind. I didn't even know you'd crept up on me."

Gale treads deeper into the hallway, then stoops to pick up the letter for her. "Still writing this guy?" he asks after blatantly looking at the address.

Madge hastily tucks the paper safely into her skirt pocket before he's emboldened enough to read the letter itself. "Maybe we should, eh…" She gestures toward the court. Hallways, like alleyways, seem to be Gale's natural habitat and she doesn't want to encourage him to keep popping out of nowhere.

Gale shrugs and leads the way into the deserted bench area. Only the few folks, like Madge, who got stuck with a late lunch shift walk around the Level 4 floor. In another half hour, the early dinner crowd will be arriving. Right now, it's peaceful.

Madge picks a bench to sit on and smoothes her skirt out over her legs. She clears her throat. "Where did you come from anyway?"

"Just stretching my legs. Saw you vanish into the hallway." Gale invites himself to sit next to her. "So, the letter. From your friend?" he asks. "The one I scared off."

Madge doesn't fall for his obvious goading. "He wants to meet me again." Then she can't help adding, "I hope you plan to stay in tomorrow night."

Gale's lips twitch. Madge hadn't meant it as a joke, though. It must amuse Gale to be a nuisance – in fact, she knows it does.

"I guess I could manage that." He coughs. "But no promises. What will you tell him?"

Madge blinks, then her gaze wanders to the post office. A pained expression crosses her face and she slumps down on the bench in defeat. "Well, actually..."

Then she has an inspiration. She bolts upright, taking Gale off guard. She adjusts herself on the bench to face him directly. Her hand rests on his forearm and he glances down at it.

"Gale, would you do me a favor?" she begs.

"What is it?" he asks distractedly, still staring at her hand.

Madge bites her lip, struggling between the need to send this reply and maintaining her dignity. The letter wins out. "Well, I need to send my reply. It's urgent…but I made the post office clerk cry and I'm afraid that –"

"Wait," Gale holds up his hand, "You made him what?"

"Cry," she says matter-of-factly. "He acted like a jerk, but he's really sensitive apparently, and so…" She stops to see if he's following.

Gale shakes his head with an incredulous look in his eyes. "Go on."

Madge spreads her hands out on her lap. "I don't have anything with me to write the letter. I have to go back to the office soon and don't have time to go get stationary – he needs the answer right away or he'll think I don't want to meet him."

Gale crimps the hair on the back of his neck, and considers. "So, just use a postcard. They've got stuff you can buy at the post office."

Madge imagines facing the clerk again and feels her stomach knot. "But that's just it – I can't go back in there."

"Looks like you're outta luck." Gale shrugs.

Out of luck? No. That's simply not acceptable. She stiffens her resolve and tries a different tack.

"But, do you think you could go for me?" Madge gives him a toothy smile. "I'll give you money for a postcard and stamps and then maybe you could just put it in the local mail slot, I would appreciate it so much!"

Throughout her speech she managed to scoot a little closer to Gale, till their legs pressed right up against each other and making the scent of her perfume unavoidable.

Gale's hands curl around her shoulders, anchoring her in place while he scoots back a few inches. "You're doing it again."

Madge's smile falters a few watts. "What?"

"Girl hoodoo. Back up a little so I can think." Gale faces straight ahead, studying the waxy palm leaves across from them. He shoves his hands in his pocket, looking studious and rebellious at the same time.

"I haven't the faintest idea of what girl hoodoo is," she mumbles grudgingly, though she obliges to give him space. "I'm only asking for a simple favor."

"Seems to me you always need favors when you want to see this guy," Gale recalls.

Madge doesn't dignify that comment with a response. It's not her fault Haymitch made them both work late on that horrible evening. Unfortunately, her silence amuses Gale more than a retort would have.

"So, you just want me to get you a postcard, a stamp and then mail the thing?" He looks at her sideways.

Madge nods.

"So you can avoid the guy you made cry."

"I didn't mean to make him cry," Madge insists. "Will you help, Gale? It would mean so much to me. I don't have a lot of time before I have to go back to the office and my boyfriend wants to meet me tomorrow night."

Madge watches for any sign of a break in Gale's stony expression. He probably thinks she's a fool for investing herself in a relationship like this and dragging him into her post office problem. If she didn't need his help so badly, she wouldn't bring up her foibles with him.

She looks up at him and uses the last weapon in her arsenal. "Please?"

Gale whistles, a long, low sound, before he gets up from the bench and starts walking toward the post office.

"Wait!" Madge cries, jumping up after him.

Gale stops and turns around. "I thought you were in a hurry?"

Madge hastily fishes around in her purse for loose change. "Here. This should cover postage and the stamp." She holds out a crumpled bill and coins.

"Forget it," he says, walking away again.

"But…"

"I'll get it," he calls over his shoulder.

Madge crosses her arms, again frustrated by his stubborn refusal to take her money. She watches him stalk into the post office through the glass storefront and puzzle over the stationary display.

Minutes go by while he contemplates all twenty cards for sale. She doesn't know why he's spending so much time over it because they're all ugly, generic junk anyway. The sound of her shoe tapping against the floor echoes around her like an erratic heartbeat. Finally, Gale picks a card, tosses it on the counter where the clerk stands. Gale jabs his thumb over his shoulder while his jaw works, which she can just barely see from a sliver of his profile. The clerk looks up and his eyes meet Madge's across the court. She takes a step back, stunned. The clerk quickly looks down again. He puts a stamp on the card and Gale walks out.

Madge glares at Gale when he passes the first potted palm. "What did you say to him?" she demands.

Gale shrugs. "I told him you're sorry and that you think he's hot."

"What!" she cries. Her hand flutters to her heart, feeling for palpitations. "Gale…I can't ever show my face in the post office _now_! How could you?"

"Here's your postcard." He puts the card in her hand. "Maybe after tomorrow night you won't have to bother with the post office."

Well, there is that.

Madge glances down at the illustration and frowns. "You got one of a duck?" she says blandly.

"Now, just wait." He turns the postcard around in her hands. "Now it's a rabbit. The great thing," he says soberly, "is that they're both edible."

Madge's eyebrows furrow. She pictured a postcard with flowers or hearts or naked babies with wings on it to befit the occasion. Something, well, romantic so that her friend will feel reassured that when he asks his Very Important Question, she'll be open to receiving it.

A rabbit-duck just doesn't send the same vibe.

"You think he'll like this?" she asks haltingly.

Gale takes the postcard back and turns it around so it's a duck again. Then the rabbit. Then the duck. "Yep."

Madge shrugs. "Alright…and thank you." She seats herself on a bench again and fishes a pen out of her purse. She tries writing on her lap, but it's not hard enough for the pen to work. She looks up at Gale watching her. "Do you think I could use your back?"

His eyebrow crawls upward.

"To _write_," she huffs. Why does he always take everything she says wrong?

Gale sits next to her and turns so that his back faces her. Madge bites off the cap of the pen and starts to fill out the address lines.

"I ran into your dad today," Gale says by way of conversation, craning his neck around as she holds the card against his shoulder blade.

She gives the back of his head a peevish look. "Gale, I wish you would stop 'running into' my father," she says around the cap. "You know, I pay good money for his membership at the center."

"But does he like it?" Gale challenges.

Madge rolls her eyes toward the vaulted ceiling. She's never met anyone so nosy about her family before. Even back in Twelve, if anyone felt remotely curious or opinionated about their care of her mother, they kept it to themselves. She can't see why it bothers Gale so much.

"It's not a question, Gale, he needs it," she says as she scribbles her reply. "Don't you think I have his best interest in mind?"

Gale sits in quiet thought while she writes the body of her note. Madge relaxes since he's dropping the subject of her dad and concentrates on what she wants to say.

_Oh, my Dear Friend, my heart was trembling as I walked into the post office, and there you were, lying in Box 237. I took you out of your envelope and read you, read you right there._

"I think you want to protect him," Gale says, butting in on her concentration.

"Who?" she asks, having lost the thread of their conversation and not particularly caring.

Gale starts to turn around, but Madge braces her hand against his shoulder. She's not ready to face him. "Hold still. I'm almost done."

Gale exhales through his teeth. "Your father."

Madge pauses her writing and finally pulls the cap out of her mouth. "What's wrong with protecting my father?" she huffs.

"Nothing's wrong with it," Gale drawls. "To an extent."

Madge leans her side against the back of the bench for a brief break from writing. Her arms cramp from holding up the postcard. Gale turns so that he can see her. He tucks his arm behind the back of the bench.

"Why do you deliberately provoke me on this subject?" she asks wearily. "Is it because you're the oldest?"

It's a theory of hers, although she's never had siblings, that the older ones tend to push the younger ones around. Without his family in close proximity, Madge wonders if he's adopting her for the role of little sister. That would explain his strange measure of attention to her family's issues.

Gale balks. "What? No."

"You're just naturally bossy?" she asks wryly.

"I'm not bossy," he grouches. "I just happened to notice that Henry's wearing you down to a rag, that's all."

"Pardon?" Nobody's ever said anything like that to Madge. Katniss and Peeta never drew that conclusion, and they're her best friends. Although, she can't even remember if they've ever visited her and her father at the apartment in order to know what he's like, or talked about her father except when they want to send her home with cake.

A look of chagrin crosses Gale's profile. "And in case you haven't noticed, he's definitely sharper than you think he is."

Madge's face closes off as her defenses go on alert. Nobody wants to feel like they've missed something important, especially about her own family. "His health has taken a turn for the better recently," she admits stiffly. "However, I don't see why you'd care one way or the other about—"

"Your welfare?" he finishes with a definite challenge in his voice.

Madge blinks. She leans forward and holds up her card to show that she's ready for him to turn around again so she can finish writing. Or that she needs him to stop looking at her like he can see everything she's thinking. Gale grudgingly complies, but he makes sure she knows he's not done with the conversation.

"I thought we were friends now," he grouses over his shoulder.

"Well…" Madge quickly signs the card with her pseudonym and sets the card in her lap. She flutters her eyelashes as confusion plays across her face. Welfare is a strong word and it makes her feel uncertain about what he means.

Gale slides around to face her, looking deadly serious. "You don't have to run yourself into the ground for your dad, that's all I mean."

Madge's lips purse. Of all the conversations they've had – the one about her family bothers her the most. She can't adjust her thoughts enough to believe that he has any right to make conjectures – and she _really_ can't adjust her feelings to know what to do with his concern. It's just foreign.

The Gale she knew in Twelve should despise her and her father, for having plenty when he had nothing, for her father's inability to protect the district, and so many other things. And now he can add her unpardonable and unprofessional behavior to him for the three months they worked together to the list. There's just no good reason for him to care, to want to be her friend or to make dinner for her, to fix their sink, or teach her to sew or any of the nice little things he's done. To step foot into her tiny sliver of the world when Katniss and Peeta haven't – and with the least amount of reason to do so.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asks eventually. "Let him run amok?" It's been a while since he's gone to visit her mother's vault, but still. She knows better than to hope he's done with that phase.

Gale holds out his hand and Madge surprises herself by taking it. His warm, rough fingers wrap around hers. It's a simple gesture, but she feels like someone just shot her up with a concentrated dose of well-being. She tries to remember the last time someone really touched her (ankles aside), in a hug or pat on the back or anything. It had been a while. Her father felt more comfortable with words, anyway.

"If he decides he wants a midnight stroll, let him," Gale says with his trademark earnestness. "He's a grown up. And if security thinks he ought to go home to bed, let them bring him back. It's their job to be up at three in the morning, not yours."

Madge's lips part in surprise. "I never thought of it like that."

Gale makes a derisive sound in his throat. "Madge, they won't work more than they have to. If they can bully you out of bed to fetch him, they will. Do yourself a favor and unplug your phone at night."

Madge's throat tightens up, though she has no idea why. What he's suggesting isn't particularly emotional, but it's triggering _something_.

"Do you think I can?" she asks, like she needs permission to get a good night's sleep or worry about herself for a change.

"Yes, you can," he replies firmly. "Will you, though?"

"I think so," she murmurs. Madge chews her lip, turning round, blue eyes on him that look a little scared. By cutting her dad loose, she's doing the same to herself. She sniffs. _How did asking for a postcard turn into this?_

Gale's shoulder eases against hers. He lets go of her hand and strokes her cheek with his thumb. "If you keep biting your lip, it'll fall off."

"Huh?" she breathes out, feeling her thoughts scramble in direct proportion to his nearness. Suddenly, the bench feels crowded.

Gale's eyes wander from her eyes, down her nose, to her lips. Her eyes are fixed on his face, stunned. His fingers are still warm on her cheek. Gale leans over her, but she's fixed to the spot. She can't tell if she's breathing anymore. He closes the space between them, tilting toward her. His nose brushes her cheek. She can almost taste his lips, then the barest touch of soft – and then—

Madge surged off of the bench, galvanized into action before he could fully take her mouth. For just a second she felt a trace of his skin and then...

"Have to go," she chokes out, as much to the palm trees as to Gale.

Madge disappears through the palms before he can reply. She doesn't dare look back to see if Gale's watching her run away like a coward.

Madge left the post office earlier with her letter, feeling practically immoral with happiness. Now she feels immoral for completely different reason. She's experiences a crisis of conscience as a latent attraction to Gale comes to a head with her deep feelings for her letter friend. She'd been surprised – stunned – by the sudden flush of desire she felt as he leaned over her.

He almost kissed her.

She would have let him – she still feels the coils in her stomach from when he touched her cheek.

It came completely out of left field. Not fair.

_How could she be so weak?_ She rails inwardly as she takes the lift to the upper levels, oblivious to everything around her. Whatever this physical attraction that she has for Gale, it can't compare to the real sympathy and connection she has with her friend.

Except that Gale had been connecting with her, almost like all the letters she'd ever received from her friend had just materialized on the bench next to her.

Madge wishes she knew her friend's name! It would help bolster her thoughts, give her something real to work on while she struggles with where to place Gale in her scattershot life. Instead, she's confused and talking herself in circles. Is an almost-kiss a betrayal? Her friend will never know about it – but she will.

And Gale!

Gale is bad news for her.

Madge arrives back at the office feeling distraught and twisted into knots. How could one conversation have such disturbing effects on her – just one slight gesture? Thankfully, Terry isn't back from an errand yet. Unfortunately, Ilona's sitting at her desk.

"Madge, what's wrong?" Ilona gasps as Madge wanders past her desk. Then she squints. "You've been kissed."

"I have not," Madge yelps, turning on her heel to face Ilona's desk.

Ilona leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. "Almost kissed, then. I can tell."

How?

Ilona responds to the question on Madge's face. "Heightened color; drippy, unfocused gaze; and…"

"Alright, that's enough," Madge groans. She resumes her retreat, but Ilona asks what's wrong. "Nothing," she sniffles. "My friend wants to meet me again. Tomorrow."

Ilona's eyes light with recognition. "But, Madge, you don't seem very pleased. You aren't having second thoughts are you?"

"Second thoughts?" she repeats, with rapidly rising color. "Um, no, of course not. No."

"Then what is it?"

"Nothing. Just something someone said."

"What?"

She can't possibly tell Ilona the truth, crystallizing the theory that Gale might maybe possibly feel attracted to her. Or maybe just bored enough during unemployment to amuse himself at her expense. As if Gale pouncing on her didn't declare the truth of it all on its own.

Over the next twenty-four hours, Madge vows to avoid Gale at all costs.

…

Madge bolts without a backward glance. Gale's hand hangs in midair for a few seconds where her cheek had been before he drops it in his lap. Watching her retreat, Gale can't figure out if he won or lost.

The postcard fell out of her lap when she scarpered, landing in the middle of the floor. He gets up to retrieve it and reads it right there. Will she be ready for him tomorrow?

Gale's entire body stiffens as the potted palms rustle behind him and a pair of hands winds themselves in his shirt on either side of his hips. A wiry body presses against his back.

"Hello, Gale," a voice purrs over his shoulder. "What are we doing here?"

"Got off," he mutters, stowing the postcard in his pocket. Right now he can't afford distractions, especially in the form of ex-girlfriends.

Johanna's fingers loose themselves and she steps around to his side. "I bet I know what you're thinking," she sings.

"I doubt it," Gale mutters. Still, he tries to clear his mind in case she can pick something up in his eyes.

"How it's a shame she just ran off," Jo continues despite the evil eye he's casting her way. "That used to be your favorite part, the kissing…" She winks at him.

"Wrong," he replies flatly. "I'm debating if I should mail this postcard to myself. I already read it."

It isn't a lie, because now that he's stated the problem, he really does consider it. What will he do with the postcard?

Jo drops the teasing and looks at him like he's nuts, "Why?"

"I paid for the postage. Wouldn't want to waste it." In truth, he can hear his dad's voice in his head telling him not to waste the stamp. Some impulses don't go away, no matter how much money he has to his name.

Jo digs her elbow into his ribs. "So, that's the girl, then?" she asks innocently. "Remind me where Madge Undersee is from again?"

"Home," is all he says.

Jo gives Gale a long, considering sideways glance. "From District 12, huh?" she gives him a pointed look that reminds him of the things she said in her kitchen, about how a part of him still hadn't let go of his home district – one of the reasons she gave for dumping his ass for an old fart.

"You're reading into things," he grouses. "How long have you been watching us anyway?"

"Long enough to watch you watching her in the post office." Jo angles her head as she studies him. "Although I thought most perverts tried to stalk girls in the shower or something. Post office is kind of tame, Hawthorne."

"I'm not stalking her. It's more like checking up on an investment." He should have thought of this before – trying to catch her coming to her box before they set up the first date. Given how they were trying to be anonymous, it didn't seem very sportsmanlike.

Jo retreats to a nearby bench and makes herself comfortable. Gale chooses to stay on his feet. He feels safer that way.

"Whatever. Don't take it hard. Really, you're kind of hot when you're in stalker mode," she remarks as she swats a palm branch away from her hair. "Although it probably means you're crazy or a sociopath."

Gale shoves his hands back into his pockets. "Maybe. But it doesn't compare to your particular brand of crazy," he points out.

Jo laughs, a short, punchy sound. "Yeah, well, my brand of crazy comes with a doctor's note, at least," she retorts. "I'm still awesome. You can thank me now."

"For what?" he grimaces.

Jo stretches both arms along the back of the bench and taps her fingers on the painted metal. "For providing stimulus," she says with a grin.

Gale cocks an eyebrow and really looks at her for the first time. She's wearing tattered jeans and a stained t-shirt, by far the most normal outfit he's seen her in yet. But Johanna passed normal behind a long time ago.

"By telling Madge that I'm pining for you?" he gripes. It amused him last night, but he's in a bad mood now.

A slow-cooked smile spreads across Jo's face. She gets off the bench and sidles up against him. "Are you, Gale?" she purrs. "Pining for me?"

Gale stares down his nose at her. As with Madge, he uses her shoulders to steer her away. "Sorry."

Jo retreats back to her bench, not put out in the least. "You know, Madgykins was fun to play with."

She makes it sound like a cat playing with a mouse, which rankles Gale. It reminds him of one of the reasons he doesn't regret her. She relishes making other people squirm. He can handle it, but he's defensive of Madge. He gives her a sour look.

"I don't appreciate that." He didn't ask Jo to pester Madge and he doesn't even know how Jo guessed that he felt interested in her. Unless Haymitch decided to use them as a subject for small talk with the Heavensbees at some point. It would just figure.

Jo shrugs, like his approval comes in second. "You should have seen her face when I said I was your last girlfriend. Jealous as all get-out." She adds, "Next time you need someone to play devil's advocate, let me know."

"Jo, shut up." Gale pinches the bridge of his nose, as his irritation mounts. Jo's playful side is hardly her worst, but he's just not in the mood.

Jo sighs happily. "So transparent." Then she snorts. "You know, she's a flimsy, pale looking thing. I thought you had better taste."

Gale appraises Johanna, surprised by the critique. "Jealous?" he asks with a smirk. Why else would she care?

Jo's lips curl under. "As if." She throws in a frown that has _I'm about to ax you if you dare suggest it again_ written all over it. She watches his face a little longer. "So, no regrets?"

A switch flips in Gale's brain. The realization is a little late in coming, but he's all muddled by his mood. This is Jo's sideways approach to showing concern and that she hopes that maybe she didn't hurt him too bad. Given her background, making mischief is about the most normal way she can help.

Gale feels his irritation recede some, replaced with a little bit of sympathy. The odds were always stacked against Jo, and he figures it wouldn't hurt to let her know that he's okay despite what she did to him.

"No regrets," he replies with none of the venom he might have had.

"Well, there's not much point in me sticking around. You don't need to be cheered up," Jo grumbles to mask her relief. "Not that I have that effect on you anyway."

"Not really." He gives her an attempt at a pleasant smile. "If that's all you wanted."

Jo shrugs. "Now that the sweet talk is over," she says with a sardonic twist of her lips, "I do have a message to deliver before I go. Haymitch and Plutarch want to talk. You're to meet them tomorrow night at our place," she explains as she hands him a slip of paper.

Gale looks at the message and the time. He growls as he's returned to his former feeling of irritation.

_Hell's teeth._ It's like Haymitch has a sixth sense about when he wants to go on a date.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC<strong>

**A/N:** The title comes from "Freak Out" by Tapes 'n' Tapes. However, another great song for this chapter is "Are You Gonna Be My Girl" by Jet.

*Madge's letter is a direct quote from the Shop Around the Corner script.


	19. Come Hell

**A/N: **Thanks HGgirl34, SuperObsessive, YoYo37, & Ella P. for reviewing!

Super huge apologies – this is part one of the original chapter. We are experiencing a power outage where I live. I've heard estimates that we could go without power as long as four to five days. I'm hoping that's not the case. Anyway, for lack of time, electricity and Wi-Fi, I'm posting this long chapter in parts. The Panera employees look ready to swarm and eat me if I don't leave or order everything left in their bakery.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

**Come Hell**

* * *

><p>"If you're worried about getting a job," Katniss insists as she raises her bow to the level of her eye. She sights down the arrow shaft and lets fly. She brings the bow down again and turns her pink face to speak to Gale directly. "Then stop saying you'll survey for us for free."<p>

Even this early in the morning, the summer heat makes even the shade of the trees feel close. Gale shields his eyes from the sunlight breaking through the canopy and tries to peer deeper into the forest. He didn't even see what she aimed for, a bird probably, let alone where it landed. He just knows she hit it. She never misses.

"I'm not charging you," Gale grumbles, going back to stringing his bow. He's rusty. "It'll cost enough to build a new house without adding my fee."

"How are you going to buy new equipment, Gale?" Katniss rolls her eyes. "Believe me, living anywhere but in Victor Village will more than justify the fee," she mutters.

That's not the problem and Gale knows it, so he waits.

Katniss nocks another arrow, raises it, but stops short. Her eyes cut the air between them. She pivots on her heels to look behind her with searching eyes. "Peeta's lost again." She sighs. "He said he wasn't going far."

Gale rolls his eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow. Why she insists on bringing her husband along, he'll never know. She spends most of their hunting time babysitting him, which, Gale guesses, might be appropriate practice. Still. Fresh air's good and all, but the woods make Peeta jumpy. And he's still no ballerina with that peg leg. If he didn't volunteer to pick berries, they would've sent him away to stop scaring game.

"He's probably tangled in the vines again," Gale opines.

Peeta told them that he wanted to work on his camouflage skills that time. Today he said he wanted to find fresh berries for his latest baking craze using Mr. Everdeen's book so he won't poison them all by picking the wrong ones. Although, one would think he'd have those berries memorized by now after painting them all over in watercolor. That project used to make Gale jealous, since helping Katniss fill in those pages used to be _his _task.

"I thought you wanted chocolate custard filling, not berries," Gale points out.

Katniss frowns at him. "The chocolate custard cheese buns are for me. For people with _normal_ cravings, he's getting the berries. And he should've been back by now." Katniss shoots once more, then hangs her quiver over a branch. "I need to rescue my husband. Just consider the offer, Gale. We want to break ground before the summer's out. Will you be ready to go back to Twelve?"

Gale finally maneuvers the string over the limb tip. In general, he's not sure. Even without the little complication that is Madge, he hasn't been back to the old home in a very long time…as his mother likes to remind him.

"Let me get back to you after tonight." That's about as much as he can commit to.

"Have an estimate in mind," Katniss replies, giving Gale a knowing look before she slips away in the direction Peeta went. "Otherwise we'll owe you."

There it is. Gale wants to remind her that they don't live in that world anymore, but she's already gone. Her braid is the last thing Gale sees through the leaves.

…

"Is Haymitch here yet?" Madge asks as she slides into the office just after nine o'clock. She not in the mood to deal with him. Her latest project is overdue and she's anticipating a lot of bellowing from his office.

Ilona shakes her head then points her nail file at the desk at the end of the two rows.

Terry sits slumped in his desk, sniffling and wiping his nose with a tissue. The fluorescent light bleached out what little color he might have had, giving him a pasty aspect. Ilona watches the pitiful display from her desk and gives Madge a shrug.

Madge approaches his chair and asks gently, "Is something wrong, Terry?"

Terry sniffles and grabs another tissue. "Allergies."

He puts his arms down on the desk, slumping pathetically. Then Madge sees it: a yellow buttercup in his lapel. The blood drains from her face. No! Nonono…

"Terry?" Madge squeaks, bumping into the corner of her old desk as she backs away from his.

Terry blinks up at her with bleary eyes. "Huh?" he mumbles.

"What…you?" she points at the buttercup. It's simply _not _possible that Terry…

Terry glances down miserably at his chest. "It's the Flower of the Month Club selection." He makes air quotes with his fingers. "My mother made me wear it," he says with a gloomy sniffle.

"Oh." Madge's lungs begin working again after the nasty coincidence. "Well, perhaps you should take it off. Your mother won't know, will she?"

Terry's face relaxes like his benevolent angel just gave him a reprieve from a very harsh eternity. He grabs the buttercup and throws it in his trash bin, unaware that Madge is just as relieved as he is after it disappears.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Madge quickly sidles around the desk and unlocks her office door.

"Well, Madge," she says under her breath as she closes the door behind her. "I think men might be more trouble than they're worth." She digs her fingers into her temples and makes herself comfortable in her chair.

…

Gale's glad he shaved after hunting as he steps into the empty jewelry store, but maybe he should've put on one of those wool suits hanging in his closet instead of his jeans and wrinkled shirt. It's just the thought of wearing those straitjackets again makes his nethers want to crawl away. Still, it might have been a good idea.

Some fancy, tinkly piano music plays from an invisible speaker somewhere in the showroom. It makes Gale feel jumpy. But so does the salesman, a spindly looking guy with greased back hair, standing at the glass counter. He gives Gale the fish eye while reaching for something beneath the counter.

"Can I help you, sir?" the salesman asks while trying to peer at Gale down his nose. It's hard, since Gale has about eight inches on him in height. "Perhaps you need directions to the pawn shop?"

"This is a jewelry store, right?" Gale asks with a hint of menace in his voice.

"Yes," sniffs the salesman. "I am Horatio and this is my shop."

"Then I'm in the right place. I'm looking for something nice, but not too expensive," Gale tells him.

The salesman stops reaching for whatever it was beneath the counter. His eyes roll toward the stamped ceiling tins, like he expected Gale to say this, but only if he didn't turn out to be a thief.

"If you will just step down to this case," he says, walking down toward a dusty glass display in a dark corner. "And who will we be buying for today, may I ask?"

"My girlfriend."

Horatio makes a sour face. "Oh. Then perhaps this one." He backtracks down a case to a less dusty and slightly better lit display.

Gale looks between the two displays, wondering what difference it makes who he's shopping for? A price is a price, right? "Who was that display case for, then?" he asks about the darkest and dustiest one.

"Grandmothers and paramours," the salesman replies. "Anyone you don't expect to last very long."

He unlocks his side of the case and wiggles his fingers over the trays. "Now, what are we looking for? Ah, a ring, perhaps?"

Gale coughs quietly into his fist. "A ring would be premature at this point."

The man's eyebrows rise. "Oh," he sniffs. "Well, what did you have in mind?"

"Something that says I'm sorry for not telling her the truth sooner?" Gale's pretty sure that's the message he wants to send. It's more palatable than right out bribery not to bolt like she did last night when he tried to kiss her. He still feels the sting of it. It'll hurt about ten times more than that if she doesn't stick around after he tells her the truth.

Horatio leans heavily on the case with both hands and says candidly, "My dear young man, if you're in some sort of trouble with this woman, why on earth did you ask for the _nice but not too expensive _case? We should be at least three cases over in the _very expensive and prostrate kissing her feet _display. It's one case short of _engagement rings so heavy her finger will be sore._"

Gale rubs his jaw as the cost of this bright idea starts multiplying like rabbits. "What do _you_ have in mind?"

"Diamonds. Pearls. Enough karats to make District 1 blush." He waves a hand vapidly at a string of imaginary jewelry dancing before his eyes. Gale can't see what he's seeing, but its giving him indigestion just the same. "Something that needs to be polished every six months to keep the insurance policy valid."

Gale balks. "Insurance?"

The salesman smiles genially. "We have financing, too."

_Hell's teeth_, Gale cringes.

…

"Listen, Dad," Madge says into the receiver, "I'm staying late tonight. I want you to go out for dinner. The Broken Oar has a nice special on pot roast tonight. Your favorite."

"But there's leftovers in the fridge," Henry protests on the other end of the line.

"I know, but my friend is coming tonight," she says, curling the phone cord around her finger.

"So, you want me out of the way, hmm?"

"_Dad." _

"What time shall I make myself scarce?"

"Eight o'clock? Then come back at 10:30. If the date goes badly," her voice dips to emphasize how dire that would be, "he'll be gone by then, and if it goes well, he'll still be there. And then you can meet him."

"I look forward to meeting your pen pal with bated breath," Henry says dryly.

"He's more than a pen pal, Daddy," Madge reminds him.

Mr. Undersee makes an impolite sound through this nose, then hangs up.

Madge replaces the phone on its cradle, then takes a shuddering sip of Ilona's coffee. It's gone cold since five o'clock. She pushes the cup away from her and uses her mouse to click to the next screen on the ChumpCheck database she was scanning through before she called her father.

Although a stack of prospective intern files sit on her desk to check against the criminal background database, she's having more fun looking up people she knows. She's pleased to find that her father doesn't have one mark against him. But then, the database only goes back six years for refugees. It's really only helpful when she's looking up individuals who are from District 13. Plutarch hasn't paid to incorporate the Capitol's databases yet. Besides, ex President Snow's ideas of criminals tended to conflict with the Underground's.

Madge is less pleased to see Gale's squeaky clean record. She doesn't want him to be guilty of aiding Jabberjays and embezzling from the agency, but she's been so annoyed and confused by him lately she'd like some leverage against him with her father. And herself.

_Oh, Dad, did you know Gale received a fine for scaring old ladies in the street? He also shoplifts ladies underwear and bets at dog fights. _And he tries to steal kisses.

With her luck, her father wouldn't believe her anyway. Gale and _Henry_ have become positively chummy. If only Gale would get a job and leave them both alone.

Madge swipes the mouse over the close out box, closing the window informing her that there are no records on Hawthorne, Gale. She starts over with a new search, telling herself this is for practice. Madge types in Smelting, Ilona.

No hits.

Pettygrew, Terrance.

Not hits.

Abernathy, Haymitch (of District 12), pulls up a familiar, surly face. He's been charged with threatening to throw someone's small dog down the garbage chute when drunk. Madge remembers that happening, actually. Two years ago. The dog used his leg for a lavatory.

She closes his record and tries Trivet, Junius.

A record comes up and Madge gasps.

The picture on the profile isn't Junius at all. The information matches, formerly of District 2, age 36. Golden, curly hair. Green eyes. But the face is all wrong. Madge clicks back a page. It's the only hit for the name.

But Junius isn't Junius at all…and the one on her screen is…dead.

….

Gale feels just as jumpy walking into the Heavensbee residence as he did the first time when he came to clear things up with Jo months ago. It's worse now that he's got to share the living room with Plutarch _and _Haymitch.. Haymitch he can stomach on his own, but dear old Plu isn't much of a picnic. At least he talked them down to meeting an hour earlier, but he's not optimistic that they'll be able to wrap things up, unless some divine intervention comes to his rescue.

Jo answers the door on the first ring, stepping into the corridor wearing nothing but a c-shaped pillow wrapped around her waist.

"Hell's teeth, Jo," he sputters. "I thought you were done with that habit."

Jo looks down at her bare feet, like they're the offending party. "Not a chance." She grins.

"Isn't anyone here yet?" He figures he caught her mostly unawares, otherwise Heavensbee wouldn't let her pop open doors in this state.

She grins wider. "Everyone's here."

Gale looks both ways quickly to make sure the neighbor kids aren't playing outside, about to be scarred for life.

"What is that?" he asks, ushering her back into the hallway.

"Nursing pillow," she answers like it's something she wears every day – even if she can't be bothered to wear anything else.

Gale's eyes widen. She must be jesting. "What?"

"I'm just trying it on," she huffs. "I went shopping for baby gifts for Katniss – Effie's forcing her to have a baby shower even though she glared like a rabid wolverine when we told her –but I didn't know which one to get. I'm researching. I'm so excited I could eat the little runt as soon as it's born," she says in a savage string. She's vibrating with excitement, which is disturbing because she's mostly naked.

Gale stares up at the ceiling. "O-kay. Does their return policy say anything about using the product while naked?"

Jo shrugs. "I can use it as an armrest if they won't take it back." She demonstrates its suitability. "I wish it had a cup holder."

Gale clears his throat, done with the subject and trying not to think about Katniss wearing it the same way as Jo. There isn't enough bleach in the world to rinse those images from his brain once they're in there.

"Where is everyone?"

"They're waiting for you in the living room," Jo says, adjusting the pillow around her waist.

Gale leads the way.

…

There must be some mistake. Perhaps Junius Trivet was a popular name where he comes from? Naturally, anyone who did the background check on Junius when he was first hired would have seen this. In fact…

Madge gets up from her desk, reaching for her keys and a penknife. She crosses the empty main office, stopping at Haymitch's door. The trick to breaking into his office is to put in her office key, then run the penknife down along the wood between the door and the post, until hitting the pin. A little jiggling trips the pin and pushes it back. Then voila – free access to his office and his files.

He keeps the employee profiles in the top file drawer, or they were before Haymitch turned the top drawer into a mini bar. All their files were relocated to a cardboard box under his desk. Madge closes the door gently behind her, then feels her way to his desk, where she turns on the small lamp. Although she's alone in the office, she'd hate to be caught in here if one of the cleaning women comes while she's still browsing around.

She pushes Haymitch's chair out of the way, stooping on her knees to pull out the heavy box. Old employee files still take up space with the current employees. Madge beats back the temptation to take Gale's file, citing the fact that she's here for Junius's – and that's where the real interesting facts are.

In the end, she grabs both. If she's breaking into Haymitch's office, she might as well be thorough and limit the amounts of times she has to come back.

Madge flips through Junius's pile right there on Haymitch's desk. His picture, not the other blond man's, is glued to the top corner of the first page. Vadas signed his hiring slip, the manager who ran the place under Haymitch since before she started her internship.

The dates and physical descriptions all match. But one thing puzzles Madge. Junius has to be shorter than Gale, but taller than Madge. The height listed as 6'3" matches Gale's height exactly. But Junius couldn't be more than 5'11". She's sure of it after watching all the times Gale's glowered down at Junius while the shorter man tittered away obliviously like some obsequious lap dog.

Madge turns the page to the job description he received when Vadas hired him as the administrative assistant. He maintains contact with vendors, organizes contracts, and routes documents to the appropriate parties. Amongst other things. Madge turns the page, expecting to see his work history, the collected referrals and reference letters he used. There aren't any, which strikes Madge as peculiar. She frowns, wondering if they're in the system somewhere. She'll have to go back to her desk to search.

She scoops up the files, her keys and the penknife. She just remembers to turn off the light on the desk. The door sticks when she turns the handle. The pin won't answer to the knob. Madge huffs in frustration, preferring not to get caught red-handed tomorrow morning when Haymitch arrives. She tries fiddling with the penknife, but her hands are full. Eventually, she has to put the files down to work properly.

Several attempts, a cut on her finger, and a string of curses later, Madge emerges from the office with her files. Her face feels sticky with a light sheen of sweat, warmed by her activity and an overactive guilty conscience that made her adrenaline kick in.

Madge clatters briskly across the main room, relieved to get to her own space to review Junius's information. She pushes the semi-closed door open all the way, marching through.

Her heart jumps into her throat when she sees she's not alone anymore.

…

Gale stops short in the archway when he spots someone unexpected, causing Jo to run into him with the pillow. She pokes his back to make him move forward.

"Who brought the kid?" he asks, nodding at Terrance.

"Meet our other operative," Haymitch drawls from where he's fortressed in an armchair across the room.

Gale takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Terry, hiding most of his long legs underneath the coffee table to keep them out of the way. Young Terry blows his nose and waves at Gale. He's tucked into the corner of the sofa looking like someone replaced his nose with a red, fleshy beehive. His other hand has a drink in it that doesn't look like it's been sampled.

"He's the one who planted the tracking chip yesterday," Haymitch explains. "In fact, he was just explaining to us how he did it."

Terry shrugs modestly. "I only used an Injecto!Pen."

"A what?" Gale asks.

"It's a syringe-pen hybrid I invented," Terry mumbles. "It looks like a pen, so you can use it out in the field. Sort of stealthy...but, it's kind of run of the mill too, I guess."

Yeah. No big deal. Just an invention. Cringing, modest people make Gale's butt twitch. Not that he doesn't like Terry, but have a little pride.

"Now, that's the innovative spirit we want to see, my lad," says Plutarch, with a hint of that old Gamemaker look in his eyes.

"It's still s-sloppy," Terry stammers as Jo crosses in front of him to sit on the loveseat next to her husband. He stares down at his hands. "I got ink on his suit."

Plutarch reaches over the couch to grab a bathrobe folded over it and hands it to Jo with a blank expression, like he has to dress his wife while in company so often that he's grown desensitized to it.

"I hope you've enjoyed the vacation, Mr. Hawthorne," Plutarch drones while Jo ditches the nursing ring and loops the belt around her waist. "We appreciate your willingness to step aside for the meantime while we zero in on our culprit."

"Did it work?" Gale asks.

Haymitch nods. "The racket went silent after you were 'fired,' no doubt to lend credence to the accusations against you. Then, we received a notice about an order of rifles without a destination. It looked like the factory miscounted the cartons, and shipped off the extra. At one of the security checkpoints on the train route to District 2, Mockingjays caught railway workers trying to dump the extra box."

Gale frowns. "But they were really guerillas?"

"I'm afraid so," says Heavensbee.

"That must be why my company received random supplies and half-empty cartons," says Gale. "Someone's helping them place Jabs at strategic points and purposefully scrambling orders. Only taking pieces of things to dull suspicion."

"That's the color of it," Haymitch agrees.

"Where did the paper trail lead on this incident?" Jo asks. "If there was one."

"We have an operative in District 3 setting up a deal with him now," Haymitch continues. "He'll have to break into the office to access and authorize the records, which requires a portal with administrative rights."

"So yours," Gale points out.

Haymitch nods. "Or Madge's. It's possible that our target will prefer to use a portal that will make it easier to frame the account user. Since the management position in the agency has a history of 'corruption,' it wouldn't be hard to do."

"Then what?"

"Then we wait to catch him red-handed," says Terry. "The operative in Three will contact us when the account files have been breached." He checks a communicuff that matches Gale's. "It should be soon."

Gale checks his own and sees the coordinates listed in a bubble above the red dot on the grid changing rapidly as the individual with the tracking chip moves rapidly through the Underground.

…

Junius Trivet leans over Madge's chair, staring at her monitor, reading the record she left up when she went out. The one of him. Or some other Junius. His green eyes glance up but he doesn't move another muscle. He reminds her of a picture of a panther she saw once. His sudden quiet poise, rather than his usual flamboyance, unnerves her.

Madge blushes furiously for being caught looking up his personal info. Then she finds herself growing angry – why is he here in the first place to catch her?

"Junius, it's after hours," she states with her best authority figure voice.

Junius's eyebrows arch, but his eyes return to the monitor. "Yes, but you're still here. Doing a bit of homework?" he asks with an accent she hasn't heard him use before – a Capitol one. Warning bells go off in her head as he finally looks at her. "These aren't the personal ads, you know."

"I was just…"

Junius slips around the desk. Madge steps back but runs into the door.

"And just what did you want to know about me?" he asks.

Madge swallows. "Just a standard review, Junius," she bluffs. "That's all. Er, what are you doing here this late…wait, no—"

He forces the files from her bloodless, tingling fingers, ignoring everything she says.

"I see," he says…clearly right through Madge's lies as he view his profile. He purses his lips. "There are a lot of holes in this profile, aren't there?"

Madge tries to meet his narrowed eyes. He takes a step toward her and she grasps the doorknob.

Junius sighs, setting the file down, then looking at the next. His lips curl in distaste as he reads Gale's name on the label. "Well. You've put me in a sticky position, Madge. I'd hate to have this turn into a problem. And you always were so pretty."

He lunges for her, but she spins away just barely slipping through his fingers and out the door into the main office. She runs around Ilona's desk to keep him from gaining a clear path toward her.

Madge kicks off her heels so her running isn't hampered, but Junius just saunters out of her office with a blank expression on his face.

"Come now, Madge, let's talk about this."

"Who are you?" she asks, feeling like she's treading water.

"Junius Trivet," he replies. "On paper anyway."

"From where?"

"Isn't that obvious now?" he says with the disgusting, vivacious accent she always attributed to Effie Trinket.

"Look," she says. "I know you don't want to lose your job, but you really cannot misrepresent yourself to your employers, Junius…or whoever you are. But there are agencies that can help you find—"

"You are thick, aren't you," he scoffs.

Unfortunately, Madge has to agree with him. Junius paces the length of the desk and Madge realizes she's a fool when he cuts between her and the only exit from the office onto Level 2.

Her fingers scrabble along Ilona's desk, feeling for anything that will help her.

…

The phone starts to ring in the kitchen. It continues to ring past the polite amount, insisting that the caller won't give up.

Haymitch grunts over the noise and cups his forehead. "Blasted phone."

"Muffin, would you answer that?" Plutarch asks without looking up from a stack of reports.

Gale watches with amusement as Jo glowers but goes to answer the phone anyway. "Don't say anything important while I'm gone."

Haymitch calls, "Quick, the name of the culprit is…"

Plutarch glances over the rims of his glasses. "Now, Haymitch."

Jo returns with an uneasy look on her face. "For you," she says to Plutarch. "It's a security dispatcher."

Their hands brush they transfer the phone, making Gale feel green. He'll never wrap his mind around the two of them. He's the first to attest that love will make some strange pairs, but this is just too bizarre.

"Heavensbee here." Plutarch's eyebrows knit together. "Yes, I am the director of District Outreach."

Jo sits on the armrest next to Gale while they listen to Plutarch's conversation with the dispatcher. Her body is stiff and poised, ready for trouble. Haymitch, on the other hand, looks ready for a nap.

Plutarch's voice hardens. "When? No. There shouldn't be anyone in that office at this time."

Gale glances at Haymitch. They both know someone who frequently lingers in the office past hours. An uneasy dread settles in his stomach.

"A panic call?" Plutarch startles. "Well, I hope you sent security – yes, of course. I am on my way."

"Well?" Haymitch barks when Heavensbee hangs up.

Plutarch taps a finger thoughtfully on his pursed lips, staring at nothing in particular. Then he turns to Haymitch.

"Do you have any employees who make a habit of staying late at the agency?" he asks with concern. "We haven't heard from our contact in Two, so I'm reluctant to believe that it's our man."

A lead weight drops in Gale's stomach. "Madge," he says. "She stays late."

Plutarch looks puzzled. "Who? The intern?"

Gale bristles at Plutarch's disregard for his employees. "Your new manager," he grouses. "Why?"

Concern clouds Plutarch's face. "Someone in the office sent an alert to security through a panic button. If staying alone in the office is a habit of hers…"

Gale peels out of the Heavensbee's home before he can hear the rest.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC – I'm not trying to be evil – I promise! Thanks for your patience! <strong>


	20. High Water

**A/N**: I dreamed that I had a communicuff the night I posted ch. 19…it was pretty awesome. No wonder Gale wants one.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

**High Water**

* * *

><p>Gale skids to a stop in front of the agency office out of breath and trying to ignore the fire in his quads from too many stairs. The security officers arrived before he could, but he's confused about why they're standing around. He muscles past uniforms until he's just inside the doorway, taking in the scene.<p>

The door's closed and that registers as wrong, too.

"What are you standing around for?" he grouses at the nearest uniform.

The uniform, man of about thirty-five with a wedge-shaped face, scratches his hairy chin like a dope.

"Door won't budge," he elocutes. "Someone messed with the programming. We're on the line with Tech to override the override."

Fallible like other humans, Gale can't quell the impulse to try the keycode himself. The pad flashes a nasty red VOID at him.

Wedge-Face gives him a shrug. "Told you."

"Hell's teeth," Gale curses. "What is Tech doing now?"

"Don't know. We're on hold," Wedge-Face replies.

Gale's whole body shudders from the strain of not ripping out the man's windpipe. He's forestalled by a beeping sound coming from his wrist –a message from Haymitch confirming that the spy is inside as well.

"There's a woman in there with a Jabberjay spy," Gale growls, "and you're going to settle for being on hold?"

The slack skin on the uniform's jaw wobbles a little. "Well…"

"Forget the damn override code. Break down the door," Gale orders, striding back down the corridor as the Underground's "finest" ponder using brute force on one of their precious devices. There's a reason nobody from District Twelve ever stuck their nose up at a good, old-fashioned _hinge_, Gale mentally grouses. Nobody overrides a _deadbolt_.

"Where are you going?" Wedge-Face calls after him.

"Looking for another option."

He keeps striding down the corridor toward the hangar, trying to think of some other way to get inside of the office. But they just have the one entrance. The trouble with Thirteen, amongst other things, is the lack of windows. He can't just crawl in through the side like he might if he were locked out of a normal building. In his mind's eye, he scopes the inside of the main office, trying to remember any other options.

An icy blast of recirculated air chills the back of his sweaty neck beneath his jacket collar. Gale's boots squeak as he makes a sudden stop. The cold air triggers a memory. Every day, he stood by the coffee maker to fill his cup or hassle Madge. Frigid air always blasted directly over that counter from one of the overhead vents.

Gale pivots to the side, directly facing the long line of scaffolding still lining the corridor walls as the repairs slowly progress deeper into the Underground. Above the scaffolding, dusty ventilation ducts sag.

The ducts have to be connected. Right? Most of them, anyway.

Gale rushes to the nearest scaffold and jumps up a few bars. The metal framework shifts from side to side as he climbs, reminding him why he always let Katniss do the climbing. He grits his teeth and keeps going until he reaches the wooden platform, hauling himself up into the wood. His jacket gets caught on a loose bolt, but he manages to jerk it free.

Gale gets to his feet again and scans for the closest vent, the one that supplied the current he felt. He doubles back toward the agency until a grate appears in the overhead duct. He studies it carefully.

The whole thing could come down under his weight. It might not lead him where he wants to go. But right now he's out of options and falling two stories from a vent is really not the worst thing that could happen to him today.

He edges as far as he can away from the wall without dropping off the lip of the platform. Then he runs for it, shunting himself against the rock wall and metal vent with his arms stretched over his head. He scrabbles for purchase on the grate, sliding down till his fingers catch on the lip of the metal frame attaching the mesh to the duct. Gale grunts as his shoulders absorb the shock of the wall and the weight of his body dropping back toward the scaffold. One of his fingertips throbs from a torn nail, he guesses. He sends the pain signal to the discard pile in his brain and starts plying away the grate while he dangle over the Level 1 corridor.

Another fingernail sacrificed and a few swollen knuckles later, the grate screeches as screws come loose and the metal scrapes away from the frame. Clattering echoes through the corridor as it lands on the platform, and then topples to the stone floor. Gale glances down and regrets it as the scaffold seems to sway below his dangling feet. He looks up again and sets his jaw with grim determination. The only path to Madge that he can see lies through the ventilation system. Never his favorite feature of the Underground. But her safety depends on him now, with the dopes from security tied up with the door.

Metal bites Gale's fingers as he hoists himself up into the dark vent. Disturbed dust gets into his nose as he lands on his stomach and reels in his legs. Shouldn't there be a filter to keep this filth out of the system? Getting up on his hands and knees, his eyes tear up as he tries to hold back a sneezing fit. Coughing follows after that as the dust gets into his lungs.

The metal echoes his movements no matter how quietly he tries to crawl forward. He feels like sending a marching band on ahead to announce himself would be only a little less subtle than the banging around he's doing. It's too dark for his eyes to adjust, though they make up shadows as they strain to see _something_.

Part of him wonders if Madge did send the panic call. It could've been someone else. Though he considers the possibility, Gale feels a throbbing in his temples that tells him otherwise. These headaches, ones he experienced regularly in his role as manager, act like a Madge radar when she's up to no good. Exasperating girl! Getting herself in a scrape, making him jump through rickety ducts.

Gale crawls onward on cold metal. He feels nothing on his right side, but occasionally bursts of moving air blow his hair into his eyes, telling him where other ducts feed into each other and merge with the main. No light comes with the air currents, and he figures it's too close for the office, so he continues on his hands and knees to pound his way along the duct.

He crawls for fifty feet before a pattern of gridded light breaks the blackness on his left. He pauses, then feels his way into the connecting duct. He crawls on toward the light until he reaches the grate on the bottom of the duct. He leans over it, listening.

"…couldn't you kill me some other night? I have a date."

That's Madge, he registers with a start.

"Do you honestly believe," he hears Junius scoff, "that I'd schedule a murderous rampage around your schedule?"

Gale's throat closes up as his peripheral vision turns red. His fingers scrabble around the vent, looking for a weak point.

"It's only polite," Madge replies wryly. "It's my life you're ending."

What the hell kind of conversation are they having? he mentally grouses. Who discusses stuff like this?

Gale can't see them through the slats in the vent to know where they're standing, except that it's not directly underneath him. He gives up trying to open the vent with his hands. He scoots around on his backside and kicks out the grate with a loud clang and crunch of metal. He hears the gasps of surprise just before he drops down into the main office, landing in a crouch.

Junius swivels around to face him with a look of surprise and open distaste. Gale slowly rises to his full height while Junius stays standing with his back to Madge. They're on the opposite side of the room. She blanches at the sight of him

Gale feels a flash of relief at the sight of Madge though, separated from Junius by a desk. The sentiment is followed quickly by the desire to shake some sense into her – what kind of overachiever works late anyway? How could she scare him like this?

"Madge?"

Pale and rumpled, she clutches a plastic folder against her chest like a shield. Like that will stop a bullet.

"Hello, Gale," she manages to sound casual, if not a little out of breath. She holds up her thumb and index finger in the universal sign of a gun.

Gale moves his head just slightly. He didn't bring a gun or anything else.

Madge points at Junius's back. He has one.

"Did you mail my postcard?" she asks, causing Gale to do a double take.

"Are you serious?" he asks incredulously.

"She's been saying nonsensical things like that all night." Junius clears his throat. "Anyway, this has gotten out of hand." He reaches inside of his suit to reveal his gun. He trains it on Gale's chest.

Gale points to the weapon. "I bet you don't know how to use that."

Junius shrugs. "A person who doesn't know how to use a gun can be more dangerous than someone who does. At any rate, I _do_ know how to use it. For example, say I wanted to injury you instead of kill."

He pulls the trigger.

_Blam._

Madge screams as Gale drops to the floor and rolls. His head and back strike the counter cabinets. He registers a searing pain striping across the skin on his shoulder.

"You see?" Junius continues. "However, I'm afraid I will have to shoot to kill. Secrets must be kept."

Gale pushes himself up to lean against the cabinet, feeling his shoulder, expecting a good chunk of it to be gone. It's nothing but a cut or maybe more like a groove from a whip. He laughs foolishly at the paltry amount of blood on his fingers, as surviving the shot makes him giddy.

Junius sneers at Gale's bravado and raises his gun again.

Gale sobers up quick. His eyes flick to Madge, looking paralyzed by Ilona's desk. Her hands cover her mouth and it makes him sorry that he rushed in, letting Junius catch him off guard and without a weapon. He regrets that she'll never know the truth.

Gale's attention returns to Junius. His hands are shaking just slightly as he applies pressure on the trigger. It could be a sign of weakening.

"Wait." Gale holds up a hand. "Can I just tell her –"

"No," Junius barks.

Gale closes his eyes.

_Blam_.

Gale's body jerks back against the counter as pain bloom in his chest, like being punched by a wrecking ball. He can't breathe. He squeezes his eyes tighter and clutches at his chest.

The report of the fired gun echoing through the room, followed by a heavy _crack_ and a faint ring, like the discordant sound of bell tipping over. Then he hears Madge shouting his name.

Gale opens his eyes as Junius's body slumps to the floor by his feet like a broken mattress. A patch of sticky blood on the back of his skull mats those obnoxious, high-gloss curls. Gale looks down at his hand over his heart and groans. It feels wrong.

Madge drops the phone base back on the desk and rushes to Gale's side on the floor. She tucks her arms around his torso to help him sit up. He notices that her face is wet.

"Thanks," Gale breathes. Then he grunts.

"Let me see," she chokes, trying to pull his hand away from his chest.

He shakes his head.

Madge sniffles and stubbornly peels his fingers away. She holds his hand with one of hers while she uncovers the hole in his jacket. She blinks at his chest in confusion.

"No blood," she mumbles.

Gale makes a gurgling, confused sound and Madge opens his jacket up to expose the wound. She gasps and stares. He feels her holding open his jacket and tugging at something in it.

He looks down at what she's holding. A destroyed jewelry box. He starts cursing under his breath when the box breaks apart in her hands and what used to be a pin falls into his lap with a bullet couched in the middle of it. At one point it had been a flower. Now it looked like a mangled web.

She drops the box halves and starts pulling his shirt up. Broken capillaries branch out over the left side of his chest from the force of the bullet hitting the box. The skin looks angry red, but not broken. The force of the bullet hitting the pin left an imprint on his chest that's already blackening.

Madge slumps forward against his chest. It takes him a moment to realize that she's hugging him.

"You're all right," she chokes.

"Not really," he groans. He didn't take out the insurance policy on the pin. That hurts more than his injuries. Either that, or the stress of being shot and surviving has addled his brain. He's not thinking clearly.

Madge sits up and wipes her face with her hands. Gale pulls his shirt down.

"You're shoulder's bleeding."

Gale shrugs and points at Junius. "Not as badly as he is."

Madge grimaces. "Is he dead?"

"Fractured skull," Gale guesses. "I don't know. Don't care."

She scrambles to her knees and snatches the gun away from where it landed near Junius's hand, just in case. She puts it on a desk, then returns to Gale's side and wraps her arms under his to help him get up. His chest burns when he breathes.

Gale keeps his arm around her shoulders while he props himself up against a desk. His fingers come away red from his shoulder. "Bullet barely grazed me. I thought he'd be better with a curling iron than a gun."

"He's good enough," Madge remarks. She slowly extricates herself out from under Gale's shoulder and pushes him to sit. "He almost had you, but for that box. What was it?"

"It was supposed to be a gift," Gale says, holding up the pin. There goes his leverage. Unless _almost _dying for her will work.

"Is that real gold?" Madge gasps.

"Pretty darn near." He puts it in his pants pocket, unable to look at the symbol reflecting the pile of money he should've just flushed down the toilet.

Madge watches his face with concern. "I'm sorry it's ruined, but it did save your life. Who was it for?"

Gale pauses. Does he spill the entire thing? He has the advantage of being wounded, and yet, he's not sure he wanted Junius's leaking head as a floor decoration when he told her the "good" news.

So, he says, "A girl."

A strange expression crosses over her face, but quickly disappears. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend," Madge murmurs delicately.

"It's not official, yet." Then he arches his eyebrow. "Surprised?"

Madge purses her lips in an exasperated expression he's seen a thousand times. "Now, Gale, I don't want to argue with you tonight. It's been a long four months – and a horrible evening and I'd like to be friends with you."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"First we'd better clean you up." She wrinkles her nose as she starts batting dust from his hair and clothes.

"Just dust," he points out. Nothing wrong with a little dust. It makes up for being clean-shaven. "I was saving you."

Madge's blue eyes sweep up to his face, her lips start to move, but then she bites her lip and studies his shoulder again. Her fingers gently peel his shirt collar away from his skin to better see the wound and clucks her tongue like Ilona.

"It's not deep at all, but this needs cleaning."

Her breath tickles his skin. That part of it that doesn't feel like it's burning, anyway. Gale shrugs, feigning indifference, and regrets the movement. He's mildly worried when she goes after the emergency kit though, wondering if she's better with first aid than she is with cooking. Then he remembers that he's not the real victim here. Or he wasn't supposed to be.

"Alright, Madge?" he asks, looking her over closely. Other than the pallor of her skin and her hair falling out of its coif, she looks sound. He's tempted to pull her hair down all the way, but his fingers are dirty from blood and dust. He remedies that with his pants.

Madge pulls the kit out of a cabinet near the paper cutter and returns to the desk.

"Fine. Stop wiping blood on your jeans," she says briskly as she places the kit next to Gale. He wipes his fingers off anyway. She reaches to stop him, and before Gale can stop _her, _she grabs his wrist. The wrist. Madge's eyes widen and she shoves his jacket sleeve up his forearm.

"A communicuff? You still have that?" she cries.

Gale twists his wrist out of her grasp and clutches it to his chest. "You didn't care about the clothes."

"But shouldn't I have one?" she asks.

"Don't take it away from me."

Madge purses her lips, torn between her duty and the strangeness of Gale pouting over a contraption.

"I don't know, Gale. What if Haymitch caught you with that?"

He glances down at the device. With Junius lying on the floor in a heap, can he explain his role in the undercover mission? Does he want to be the one to tell her the truth? He's pretty sure he doesn't want to. One life-altering confession is enough responsibility.

Gale settles for a whiny, "But it completes me."

"Yes, alright," she snaps. "Keep your toy. Just stop sniveling."

Gale ducks his head to hide a smirk. "I almost died," he reminds her. And he's going to ride that pony as long as it works.

"Hmph."

Madge opens the kit and pulls out disinfectant and gauze. Gale snags a packet of mild painkillers that he takes dry.

"What happened to your fingers?" she gasps as she looks at the broken nail and the one that's missing one.

Gale looks down at the dirty, bloody tips. "I had to climb into the ventilation. Junius hacked the programming on the door."

"Where you looking for him?" she asks.

Madge fights a gagging fit as she cleans the nail beds. Gale tries not to squirm as she touches the sensitive skin. He quickly covers them with two band-aids once he can snatch his fingers away from her. Then she turns her attention to his shoulder wound.

Gale swallows nervously as Madge saturates a cotton ball with disinfectant. He tries not to squirm or make a sound when she presses it against the damaged skin.

"It's going to sting," she says after the fact.

"I know," he mutters. Then to answer her question, he says, "I knew about Junius. I was going to confront him, but then you put that call through to Security."

Madge gasps, like she just remembered. "Where are they? Shouldn't they be here by now? How did you know?"

Gale holds up a hand to stave off the flow of questions. "They're trying to reverse the hack on the door. We're stuck in here unless you want to climb up through the vent."

She frowns as she applies and adhesive pad to his shoulder wound. It's an awkward spot, but she makes it stick. "But how did you know? Why are you here instead of a security officer?"

"I've been keeping an eye on the agency," he evades, though it is a portion of the truth. "If I'm not the one smuggling, then someone else is, right?"

"I guess we know who now," Madge mumbles, avoiding the sight of the man on the floor. She repacks the kit in silence. The hair that fell out of her twist acts like a curtain between them, so he brushes it off of her cheek. Madge pauses as he gently pulls the whole thing out like he wanted to earlier. Madge's chest rises and falls a little faster, he notices.

"What happened before I got here?" he murmurs.

Madge swallows and snaps the kit closed. "I stayed late to work on some background checks," she begins. "I was fooling around, looking up people I knew…" She stops and her nose wrinkles with guilt.

"Me?" Gale asks. Madge nods. "How'd I measure?"

"Your record was perfectly clean," she grumbles.

"That's gratifying to hear," he replies. "Then what happened?"

Madge takes a deep breath and stares out at nothing in particular. "Junius got into my office after I broke into Haymitch's," she says. "He saw that I'd been looking at his profile. The name he's using, Junius Trivet, belongs to some dead guy from District 2."

"Nobody noticed this but you?" Gale grouses.

Madge shrugs. "Mr. Vadas hired him. The man you replaced. Mr. Heavensbee fired him for embezzlement, or something. I guess they didn't think to check on his staff."

"Idiots."

Madge gives him a sharp look. "He hired me, too," she points out.

"As a tip from Haymitch," says Gale.

Madge gapes at him. "How did you know that?"

"Er," Gale scratches his head, "Katniss told me."

"You talk to them about me?" she gasps.

Gale's eyebrows lift. "Don't you talk to them about me?"

Madge blinks, but before she can formulate a reply the chuckleheads from Security finally manage to open the door. Gale pushes himself off of the desk to stand next to Madge.

"The cavalry has arrived," he grouses. "We're saved."

Madge shushes him. Officers moves past them to the floor where Junius lies unconscious without a second glance.

"What happened here?" Wedge-Face demands as he follows behind.

"This man assaulted me," Gale says, showing the padded bandage on his neck. "After he threatened to kill this woman. You'll also note that he's a Jabberjay agent."

"A what?" Wedge-Face gasps. He takes a step backward, aghast that such a foul person could bust his way into the sanctum of their obviously well-guarded district.

"A spy, Officer Treadle," Madge clarifies.

Officer Treadle? "You know Wedge-Face?" Gale asks. Madge ignores him.

Officer Treadle squints at Madge before recognition sets in. "Oh, Miss Undersee. I didn't recognize you in the light," Treadle remarks. Madge winces at the accidental double-meaning and avoids Gale's eyes. Office Idiot doesn't notice. "How's your father? Safe at home?" he jokes despite the circumstances.

Madge's eyes narrow dangerously. Gale crosses his arm and grins as he waits for the set-down he hopes is coming.

"Dad went out for Senior Night," she says politely, despite the slight chill in her voice. Gale deflates. She's going soft on him. "He's feeling a bit better lately, so you won't be hearing from us."

"Sorry to hear it." Office Treadle grins nervously and Gale notices sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Dope. He opens his mouth to say something else, probably about how he'll miss waking her up at night with his calls. Gale cuts him off.

"Look, Tweedle, we bagged your criminal," he grouses, jabbing a thumb at Trivet. "Now don't you have a job to do?"

"Officer _Treadle_," Wedge-Face replies, tugging indignantly on the hem of his guard uniform.

"Suit yourself." Gale grabs Madge's elbow and leads her to the now open door. "We're done here."

"Oy, you can't leave yet," Treadle calls. "We need a statement."

"Oy yourself." Gale ignores him. Madge hid her shattered nerves pretty well, even from him, but now he can feel her trembling.

Two guards checking Trivet's vitals call Treadle over to confer about what they should do. As Gale and Madge leave the office, the guards try hoisting him up, breaking rule 1 of caring for someone with a head or neck injury. Oh well. Junius's head lolls backward in a satisfying way, though not as satisfying as the huge lump forming on the back of his head, visible through the smooshed patch of curls where Madge walloped him.

"Where are we going?" Madge asks.

"I'm taking you home, unless you want to keep chatting up Officer Ugly," he gripes.

"I wasn't chatting him up," Madge mutters as she precedes him over the threshold into the corridor.

Gale leads her along the scaffolding, past the rest of security guards loitering around a deserted coffee kiosk. He heads for the stairs, but they're blocked off by more useless guards trying to look busy.

"Blocked for security purposes. You can use the lifts, but you need clearance," one uniform drones.

Gale curses at him, but Madge tugs on his hand to let it drop. So he gives up and turns around. They have to pass by the agency again, which means possibly running into Wedge-Face.

But Office Treadle would have been more pleasant to run into, especially for being easy to push around, even if he is one of those blowhard enforcement types. Instead, they pass by the agency without notice. EMTs from Level 2 have arrived since Gale dragged Madge away. They're loading Trivet onto a stretcher suspended on a vehicle that looks like a stretched golf cart and enough flashing, colorful lights to satisfy a morphling addict. How do they get that thing into an elevator? Gale wonders as they approach.

Haymitch's bulk rears around the corner of the lifts just as Madge and Gale approach. Gale stops abruptly and Madge clips his arm with her shoulder.

Gale glares at Haymitch as Madge goes even whiter. "Where've you been?"

"Mixing drinks," Haymitch snaps. "Someone had to stay back to alert the President and District Defense about the latest developments. What did you think, knucklehead? Also, I received notice that Security's pissed that you two ran off before they could question you. Sounds pretty suspicious. Feeling guilty, Hawthorne?"

Gale curses under his breath.

Haymitch turns his beady eyes on Madge. "Hit the panic button again, sweetheart, maybe Security will arrest Gale, too," he says, coming toward them.

"What?" Madge gasps, crushing Gale's hand.

"Knock it off, Haymitch," Jo calls down the hallway. Madge and Gale twist around to see her push her way out of the office behind them. "There's no point in making the _girl_ hit her head on a desk again for no reason."

Madge blinks at Johanna's sniping tone and turns back to Haymitch. "What does she mean, Haymitch?"

"Where's your husband," Haymitch asks Jo instead.

Jo tightens the belt on her bathrobe. "Filling out an incident report." She grins. "He sent me out for distracting the security guards."

"Well, are you going to explain?" Haymitch asks Madge. "I'd like to know why my assistant is out cold."

"I think Trivet's our man," Gale answers for her.

"Of course he's our man," Haymitch retorts. "If you'd stuck around the meeting long enough, you'd know."

"I don't think I'm following," Madge says, glancing between Gale and Haymitch. "What do you mean? What meeting?"

Jo snorts. "Gale's a phony," she tells Madge. "Plutarch never hired him as a real manager."

"What?" Madge gasps, staring incredulously at Gale. She drops his hand and steps away. "What does that mean?"

Gale stifles the urge to strangle Johanna, who no doubt revels in turning the simplest explanation into sounding like a horrible scenario.

"The agency had a convenient opening, so Plutarch had the brilliant idea to plant an agent to keep an eye on the activity in the office," Jo explains.

The color rises on Madge's face in reaction to the "convenient opening" and the complete disregard of professional interest – and what that cost her.

"Then why did you fire him?" she asks Haymitch after a long moment of staring blankly at him. Her voice reaches the scary kind of quiet that suggests blood will be spilled.

Plutarch arrives at this point. "Ah, Miss Undersee, Mr. Hawthorne, quite an exciting evening you've had."

"I wouldn't call it that," she says through gritted teeth. She ignores Gale's hand reaching to pull her away.

"Well, that's all right," Plutarch says. "You've made it easier to apprehend our man."

Madge purses her lips, not quite equal to seeing things from his point of view. She certainly would not volunteer to do something like this again, even if she _did_ know she could help apprehend a criminal.

"Mr. Heavensbee, would you please explain to me what's been happening in this office," she asks coolly. "Everyone seems to know about some intrigue but me."

Plutarch blinks as if finally noting the chilled atmosphere surrounding the group.

"Er, yes," Plutarch mumbles, glancing quickly at Jo and Haymitch. He straightens his shoulders in his best Director stance. "You see, Gale's been working undercover for us since he noticed odd shipments affecting his crew. Other contracts we hold have been similarly affected lately, as you know."

"Yes," she says woodenly. "They've just been telling me."

Plutarch rests his hands behind his back, sticking out his stomach. "We hired Gale to help flush out the true culprit when it turned out that firing the original manager, Vadas, didn't put an end to the situation. Gale filled Vadas's position as a ruse to embolden the real culprit."

Gale looks sheepish for the first time in his life as Madge gapes at him. "You weren't really accused then?" Madge asks breathlessly. "You were a stoolie?" she hisses at Gale.

Gale cringes. Oh that word. "Just at the end to trick him into revealing himself."

"He just did!" she cries, wide-eyed. "He tried to _kill_ us. Is that the revelation you wanted?"

"You took pretty good care of him, though," says Haymitch warily, in case she decides to brain him with a telephone too for not telling her the truth about Gale or about the mission.

Madge crosses her arms, biting down hard on her lip, suddenly recalling the last several months with this new information. Her color changes several times. Gale's been on the end of her rages enough to know that she's seething. He doesn't blame her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks.

"We had it covered," Haymitch answers for the group.

"You've been playing me, Haymitch," she grumbles, purposefully avoiding Gale altogether.

Haymitch scowls at her, not liking the accusation. "The more people who knew the more likely Trivet would've found out."

Madge's eyes flash, then cool. "Well, the lack of information almost ended very badly for me," she retorts. "My life has been endangered so that you could maintain this charade. Did it never occur to the lot of you that you have a responsibility to more than just the districts when you came up with this _brilliant_ plan? What about Ilona and Terry? They worked with Junius every day!"

"Actually, Terry's one of ours, too," says Plutarch. "He planted a bug on Trivet yesterday. A brilliant, young entrepreneur."

Madge's eyes spark angrily. Gale parks himself against the wall as she rides her ire, which looks to be considerable.

"Little Terry? Oh, _Haymitch_," she says, as if he's the one who should have known better. "He's just a kid!" Madge keeps going, building up momentum. A few of the security guards take notice and gawk. "As the director and supervisor of District Outreach, I cannot believe how you two put your employees at risk in this foolish manner."

She stops for breath and lets that sink in while Haymitch and Plutarch frown woodenly at being put in their place by a young woman.

"I know the world has changed considerably in the last five years," she continues, "but unless I'm much mistaken, this is a _police_ matter. The last I heard, Gale wasn't even a member of the _army_ anymore. And if you ever plant fake employees ever again, I swear—"

Jo opens her mouth to say something, but Plutarch lays a hand on her shoulder, for which Gale is grateful. He'd hate to have to pull the two of them apart.

"We have a right to hold a private investigation," Plutarch replies with a slightly petulant note in his voice, only to receive a cold, blue-eyed glare from Madge. He backs up a step. "Um…I have some paperwork to fill out. Jo, Haymitch, are you coming?"

Haymitch rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "Yeah, there's some paper stuff to work on in my office if those thugs are done pawing through everything."

The two of them, tailed by a reluctant Johanna, retreat to his office, and no doubt, his mini bar. Madge's eyes shoot daggers at them the whole way.

When they're gone, Madge sinks against the wall next to Gale as her emotions start to even out again. It takes a while, but the situation eventually impresses itself on her mind and the rage melts into abject horror. She can't even blink. She just stares at the scaffolding on the other side of the wall in an unnerving way. Gale's tempted to wave his hand in front of her face.

"I screwed myself." She hides her face behind her hands. "I felt so angry with you for getting my job," she mumbles into her hands. "But, you never had it to begin with."

Gale shifts uneasily against the wall. Why does he keep having the wrong conversations with her tonight? They were only supposed to have one.

"Madge."

Her eyes start to water, making Gale shuffle uncomfortably. "I've never been so humiliated in my life. All this time, you've all known the truth while I was running around trying to find proof that you were innocent," she moans. "And I just chewed out my bosses in public. My career is in the toilet."

"Look, I'm sorry it turned out this way. Nobody meant to humiliate you."

She shakes her head angrily. "No? I thought this was real life, but all of you were playing a game."

"That's not true," he says, crossing his arms.

"Plutarch's the boss, so he can make whatever decisions he wants," she adds bitterly. "That's just how it is, isn't it?"

"Keep talking to him the way you did just now and I'm pretty sure he'll jump through hoops for you," he points out.

"You don't have to try to be nice to me, Gale," she mutters ironically, "I dug myself into a hole. Maybe if I'm lucky, they'll just bury me in it instead of handing me a pink slip."

Gale didn't want to laugh, but he couldn't help it. The sound comes from somewhere deep in his chest. Madge turns her head to the side so she can see him. And glare at him. He clears his throat.

"Sorry." Then he adds, "Junius shot me though, remember? I'm lightheaded from blood loss." That has to earn him some sympathy points.

Madge rolls her eyes, but relents. "I want to go home," she says tiredly.

Gale glances at his communicuff and kicks off from the wall. "Hell's teeth, it's getting late."

That strikes a chord with Madge, whose spine seems to snap into a rigidly straight line. "Oh, no!" she gasps. The security guards look over again. "My date. I completely forgot! With the shooting and everything…he's going to think I ditched him. What time is it?"

"8:21," he tells her blandly. Technically, as long as she's with him, she won't be late for anything.

Madge shoulders droop with relief. "Thank goodness," she breathes. "There's still time."

That there is, Gale muses. Time enough to spoil her date. Again.

* * *

><p>In case you though I couldn't drag this circus out any longer…<strong>TBC!<strong>


	21. Dear Reader I Murdered Him

**A/N: **Lazy Medea here. I'm going to go back tomorrow and try to catch typos. I hope you enjoy! Thanks to all the anonymous reviewers for leaving feedback!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21<strong>

**Dear Reader: I Murdered Him**

* * *

><p>Madge moves surprisingly fast down the Level 1 corridor. After a stumbling start, Gale follows. That's when he notices that she forgot to put her shoes on again, like the night they both showed up at the Mellark's place. She's as bad as Posy, he swears.<p>

The guard stationed in the elevator room recognizes Madge instantly. "How's your father, Miss Margaret?" he asks brightly as she careens past him toward the doors. The guard presses the call button for her.

Gale notices her ears turn pink. He smirks. Henry's situation isn't funny, considering. But then again, it kind of is, given how well-known the Undersees turned out to be.

"Fine, thank you," she replies woodenly, rolling back on her heels, impatient for the lift.

The elevator arrives and Madge steps inside just as the guard turns his attention to Gale. He holds up an arm to stop him from following Madge. "I need to see ID, sir," he says.

"I'm with her," Gale replies, keeping just behind her. She stops suddenly inside the door of the elevator, causing Gale to bump into her from behind. She stumbles forward, but catches herself.

"Are you following me, Gale?" she asks as she turns around to face him.

"Only one way down," he points out. Of course, he _has _to follow her because he's the man who's supposed to show up at her door tonight – according to the postcard he did _not_ mail after Jo told him he could cut off the stamp and glue it to a different letter.

"Seriously," the guard interrupts, "I need to see some ID. Don't you know we're under Code Chartreuse?"

Gale shows him a special trick he can do with his finger, then he uses it to hit the button that closes the doors in his face. Chartreuse? Sounds like a cheap whore.

The elevator lurches downward and Gale leans against the handrail, feeling satisfied with himself. The sentiment evaporates quickly, though. He knew it would.

"That wasn't necessary," Madge snaps.

"What? I left my wallet at home," he explains. "No ID."

He looks down at her warily. She keeps clenching and unclenching her fists, periodically wiping her palms on her sleeves. Just a bundle of nerves. He wonders if it's the aftershock from the episode in the office, or in anticipation of her date. She rubs her hair out of her eyes, but only makes it worse. A piece of her hair lands out of place, falling across her forehead. He'd sweep it back, but her eyes are sharp, narrow slits of lapis ready to slice through him if he tries. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"I don't mean the flagrant display of rude hand gestures," she grouses with a huff, reminding very much of their first interactions as coworkers. "I meant, coming with me. Why didn't you just follow Haymitch? Don't you have some top secret scheme you want to discuss with your cronies?"

Gale pretends to check something on his communicuff while tamping down his natural, surly response when someone directs sarcasm at him. He's not in a position to piss off Madge any more than he's got to. Besides he deserves the bitterness, he admits, even though he had to follow orders.

Gale shrugs in an effort to appear unruffled. "I figured you'd appreciate the company. Especially since we just discovered a real live Jabberjay spy living in the Underground undetected for several years. You never know who you might be standing next to," he drawls, trying not to show how hungry he is for her to be near him. He wishes he could show just how relieved he feels that she's safe, and angry that he's still pretending. Gale has to admit that he's a first-rate sucker.

Madge opens her mouth to retort, but the elevator stops on Level 2, revealing another security guard standing sentinel. Code Chartreuse. People file into the elevator car one by one, or argue with the guard until he lets them on without ID.

Madge eyes the other pedestrians warily and steps closer to Gale. Not close enough to touch, because that would grant him a full victory, but still. Neither one says much, both focused on the minutes lurching away with the levels as they descend. It's slow going with the new security procedure and Madge starts perching on the balls of her feet as anxiety over being late starts to reach its saturation point.

Though anticipating the exact same event, Gale wagers their thoughts have never been more dissimilar. She contemplating, he imagines, the beginning of a new relationship. He's contemplating murder, determined to rub out Dear Friend from the face of the earth with iron determination. And maybe a little trepidation with nearly four months and many lost opportunities to explain the situation to Madge – with Johanna to thank for Madge's fouler mood and getting him off to a rotten start tonight.

Gale notices the buzz running through the Underground whenever people join them on the lift. They seem to know that something happened in the bunker, but they maintain a solemn quiet as they ride. He holds onto Madge's elbow and hopes they don't run into anyone they know, not in the mood to explain.

On Level 7, he notices out of the corner of his eye, Madge glance up at him. He watches the doors close on his home floor and continues to ride down with her.

"Gale, what are you doing?" she murmurs, breaking the elevator code of silence.

"Making sure you get home all right."

"You needn't."

"I insist."

Madge huffs.

On Level 9, she slips ahead to unlock her door while he trudges behind with his brains shorting out like a bad radio. Confessions don't go well for him. It's like a plague on the Hawthornes. Or maybe just on Gale.

He leans against the doorjamb while she stands in front of the keypad, observing her mood.

"You've been awfully quiet. Still angry with me?"

Madge sighs heavily, staring at the door through tired eyes. "I'm not angry with you – I mean, I _am_ angry. I've just been thinking about this whole stupid situation at work. I'm sorry – I'm a little on edge. One disaster already and I'm worried that this date will go horribly."

Gale starts to say it'll go fine, but he can't make that promise.

Madge notices his hesitation and seems to wilt further. She makes a half-hearted gesture with her hand down the hallway from where they came.

"Anyway, thanks for walking home with me, Gale," she says despite the fact that she didn't want him to. "I hope your shoulder and chest don't hurt too badly."

She starts to open the door while Gale touches the spot where the padding forms a bump under his jacket. Maybe it's a little underhanded of him, but he knows Madge has a weakness when it comes to people in pain. It's one way to get his foot in the door.

"Hurts a bit," he admits with a grimace.

Madge glances at him and bites her lip, struggling with doing the right thing and needing to get Gale out of the way before her friend arrives.

"But then, it's only a flesh wound."

Madge's eyes soften. "You'd better come in and take another pill," she tells him, her conscience winning. "I have some in our medicine cabinet."

Gale follows her inside, switching on the kitchen light for her and shutting the door behind them. He chalks up a point for himself as he gains ground. Then his chest seizes up because once the door closes, their date has officially begun. He hopes he's ready.

He peers into the gloom of the living room. "Where's Henry?" he asks. Since she invited him over, he assumes she kicked her father out, but maybe he's just taking another one of his naps. Henry's presence in any form would cramp Gale's style considerably.

"My father's out for the evening. You can find him at the Broken Oar though," she explains, misunderstanding why he wants to know.

Gale's happy to hear it. "Too bad."

"I'm glad," Madge says distractedly. "I'd rather not explain to him what happened to us tonight."

She pats her hip when she nears the counter, then down at her feet and torso, realizing that she left her purse at the office along with her shoes and jacket. She glances at the clock, knowing there's nothing she can do about it now.

"I'll be right back," she tells Gale as she quickly disappears into the dark living room to get the pain tabs for him.

Gale busies himself by grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with tap water. The sink still drains nicely, he's happy to see. She might question his motives later on, but she won't be able to deny that he's good with a sink. Because that's what women really want in a man. He gulps water.

Madge appears around the counter again with a plastic bottle in her hands, looking pensive. She pops the lid for him and spills two brown tabs into his open palm. He lifts them to his mouth and knocks them back, then swallows all the water in two gulps.

"I probably should've made you get off at Level 2 to have your injuries looked at," she muses.

"I wouldn't have listened," he points out.

Madge rolls her eyes. "I figured as much. I still should've tried. Also, I realized something," she adds as he rinses the glass out in the sink. "You said you bagged the criminal when you were talking to Officer Treadle."

"Wedge-Face?" asks Gale. "What about it?"

"Well, technically," she drawls, crossing her arms. "I bagged the criminal. With the telephone."

Gale smirks. "I concede your point. I'm glad you're handy with a telephone."

Madge shakes her head, staring at her feet as she leans against the counter. He can see her nose wrinkle and her lips twitch a little as she tries not to smile self-consciously from the praise. Then another look passes over her face and the humor disappears.

"I held up pretty well until I thought he'd shot you somewhere vital," she admits. "That was the worst part. I just reacted, I guess."

Gale stares at her profile as he puts the glass in the drying rack. The whole ordeal went by pretty quickly, but he remembers her scream and then how she threw her arms around him when she found the damaged pin. It gives him a warm feeling underneath that bruised part of his chest, but it doesn't quite make sense.

"Worst part, huh?" He stands next to her against the counter. "I figured the worst part would be when Junius had the gun trained on you, and no idea if help would come."

Madge's fingers tangle in the strands of gold tumbling over her shoulders. "I felt afraid that he'd kill me, but it felt worse being helpless, watching him point the gun at you," she muses quietly. "I wonder if there's a word for that?"

"Sure there is," he says thickly.

"Insanity?" she laughs.

"In a way."

Madge pushes off the counter and walks into the living room where she switches on a table lamp. Gale follows her, standing on the edge of the kitchen. She turns to face him, while they each keep to their own sphere of the apartment.

Madge sighs and gives him a grimacing smile. "Well, I hope I didn't spoil your evening."

"Not at all."

The silent hint hangs in the air for Gale to leave so that he doesn't cross paths with her date. Of course, in Madge's worst possible scenario list, reliving the first failed date makes the top. Gale stands his ground though, because without him there is no date. He clears his throat.

"Were you going to meet that girl and give her the pin tonight?" Madge says suddenly before he can get a word out of his dry mouth.

Gale gapes at her. "Huh?"

"The pin." She points at his jacket. "You said you were giving it to a girl you wanted to ask out. I don't want to keep you if you have plans. I've already inconvenienced you enough for one day."

She's giving him the boot out the door, ratcheting up the pressure which makes it hard for Gale to think.

"Oh. Uh." Gale's hand immediately finds the hair on the back of his head and starts to tug at strands. "I think she'd hate me if I didn't help a friend in…your situation. She'll understand." _Hell's teeth._

Madge bites her lip and Gale kicks himself.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks suddenly.

Gale glances over his shoulder, but he's not sure why. "Sure."

"Before you go, I just feel like I need to tell you something. It's probably the worst possible time to bring this up, but…um…since we're both seeing other people…but we're friends and I've been upset with you…I don't want you to think that after tonight, with finding out that you've been masquerading under false pretenses…that we're not friends anymore. In fact… well."

Gale blinks, his brain trotting in circles trying to keep up with her turns of thought.

"I realized something," she says with a low voice, like she's trying to talk about someone who's standing close by.

"What?"

She puts her hands on her hips and frowns. "If you hadn't been so awful when you arrived – if someone had just explained to me what was going on – we would have been friends from the start. I might have even fallen for you."

Gale reaches to hold onto the kitchen chair behind him. "Huh."

Madge wrinkles her nose up like she does when she's embarrassed. "You see, I had a little crush on you when we were kids in Twelve," she admits. She retreats deeper into the living room. Gale followers her, watching while she restlessly straightens the room. "I always admired the way you and Katniss flouted all the rules. _Unjust laws are made to be broken_. That's something my boyfriend said once," she says proudly.

Gale cringes inwardly, unsure if this conversation helps his position or makes it worse, especially now that she's quoting letters back to him. He figures that she's expecting him to walk out the door soon and promptly forget everything she's just said. Because he's supposed to be chasing after some other girl. So, none of this hypothetical nonsense should matter to him, which is why she feels free enough to admit it.

Only, and here's the kicker, it does matter. Because he's the damn friend in her letters.

"That's a peculiar sentiment coming from the mayor's daughter. Breaking rules," Gale says, trying not to betray himself. He's never going to get used to her quoting his letters back to him.

Madge purses her lips. "I was in a prime position to form alternative – perhaps dangerous – political opinions, Gale," she says matter-of-factly, misunderstanding his reason for confusion. "You know, I had my name in the reaping ball too. So did my aunt – and she got selected. The differences between the town and the Seam weren't as wide as you might think. Perhaps if the Capitol hadn't tried so hard to emphasize those differences, District 12 might have been able to unite and actually do something significant. We might have been united by the things we had in common."

"Like what?" he asks, unable to help himself.

Madge waves a throw pillow. "Like protecting our friends and families from the reaping, wanting the right to provide for ourselves, and the right to representation, as well as a larger measure of self-government," she rattles off, "Just to name a few."

Gale shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from pulling her flush against him and kissing her silly. "I think you may be right," he manages to burble without sounding completely deranged.

Madge smiles at him. "See, I felt confused, because there were times when you reminded me very much of the man in my letters." She laughs self-consciously. "You're both rather incendiary. I guess that's my type." She shrugs.

"You're a bit of a firecracker yourself," he says. "It seems to me that we didn't get along so well most of the time."

Madge rolls her eyes. "Well, you started coming around and acting so nicely to me and my father," she explains. "It's silly, but did you know, there were times when you could have swept me off my feet. You can see why I was a little confused."

"Now I'm confused," Gale mutters, attacking the hair on the back of his head while he tries to remember who's supposed to be convincing who that they're meant to be together. Yet, if she could feel that way about him when they were just becoming friends, why the hell does she still give a care about the guy in her letters?

Gale silently starts to panic. How can he just come out and tell her after that setup? She considered Gale. She decided to continue pursuing another man. He's got to kill off Dear Friend. There's just no two ways around it.

Madge turns away to fluff a pillow while he deliberates. "Anyway, I'm not really sure why I told you that. Maybe just to be honest." There isn't anything left in the room for her to fiddle with, so she has to face him. Her cheeks look a little pink. "Now you're going to see that girl you like," she says happily. "By the way, is it serious?"

"What?" he asks stupidly.

"With your girl?"

Gale tries to refrain from ripping his hair out or shout out that _she's_ the girl! He can't do it. Not when she's so fixated on the letters.

Madge glances at the clock again. Her date is late. "We might both finally find the one we're looking this evening," she says pensively.

Gale scrambles inwardly. He's got to do it now or walk out of the apartment for good. His throat feels tight and he has to look away from Madge to gather his thoughts. They land on a stack of books by Henry's chair. He squints at the spines and suddenly he has an idea.

"I think we will," Gale opines, feeling a tingling in his spine.

"Don't misunderstand me." Madge hesitates with a faint blush. "In my case, it _might_ happen."

"As a matter of fact," Gale says, turning away from her to step back into the kitchen, "I can tell you, it will happen."

Madge watches his back. Her eyebrows knit together in a puzzled response to the certainty of Gale's tone and the definitive nature of his words. How could he possibly know?

"How do you know?" she asks.

Gale pauses at the counter. "Just a hunch." He goes to the sink and pours himself another glass of water. He's starting to sweat.

Madge follows him out of the living room. "But how could you know something like that?" she insists on being told. "It's so strange."

Gale turns around, feigning a candid expression. He sets down the glass. "I guess I might as well tell you," he tells her, using his fingertips to rap a death-knell on the countertop. "He came to see me."

"Who?" Madge gasps.

Gale pins her with his slate-gray eyes, the trick to telling an outright lie. "Your boyfriend."

Gale turns so he has to look at her sideways as her face goes slack with surprise, otherwise she might read the mischief in his face. He silently thanks the powers that be that his mother isn't within earshot to hear how much BSing her son is about to do in one night. She'd die of shame.

"My b-boyfriend?" she stammers. Her forehead crinkles up with consternation. "How did…_how_?"

"Well, he waited outside of the Broken Oar that night," Gale continues, unfolding the story. "Followed me home after he saw us sitting together. He found out where I live and it was pretty easy to get my name after that."

"He talked to you that night?" Madge gasps.

Gale's eyebrows knit together. "What? No. Not until after he wrote you," he fibs. "The guy stopped by my apartment while you were home sick. Apparently, he didn't believe it when you wrote that I meant nothing to you."

Alarm bleaches the color from her face. Madge holds up a limp hand. "He stalked you?" She shakes her head slowly. "Oh no. That doesn't sound like him at all."

"I sorted him out." Gale's lips twitch just a smidge. "Don't worry. In a little while you'll be Mrs. Winterbottom."

Madge blanches and tries to recover when she realizes Gale's watching her closely. "Mrs. Winterbottom?" Her hand inches up to press against the soft skin around her temple.

Gale's eyebrows lift in mock concern. "That's the name, isn't it? That's the name he gave me. Reginald Winterbottom."

A nervous laugh bubbles up from her throat, then cuts off abruptly. Her eyes look a little glazed. "Oh, yes, that's right. Winterbottom. Winter…bottom." She purses her lips like she's bitten into a lemon and can't find a place to spit.

Gale starts playing with the magnets on the fridge while Madge absorbs this information. He's starting to relish this bit of stage time. The sweating stops and he can't help watching her as he both murders Dear Friend and rebuilds himself in her eyes.

"He's a very nice fellow – after the initial shock," he remarks over his shoulder. "I congratulate you."

Madge ducks her head. "Thank you. He must have been very concerned to behave that way," she observes in with a flat tone. Then she gives Gale a sly look. "I think he's a very attractive man, don't you?"

Gale stops short of snorting as she blatantly fishes for information.

"Yes," he says carefully. "For his type, I'd say…yes. And it'll be a relief for you not to have to wear high heels anymore."

Madge looks positively alarmed by this. She steps toward Gale almost as if to reach for him, but holds herself back.

"Would you call him short?"

"I wouldn't," Gale says with a shrug. He forms the magnets into a smiley face. "But that's a matter of opinion."

"Is he shorter than me?" she asks, more to the point.

Gale turns away from the fridge, his eyes rolling up and down her body, taking his time. "With your hair up or down?" he asks.

Madge's mouth pops open, but he goes on before she can squeak a reply. "Anyway, I heard people under 5'3'' live longer than people of, say, my height. And you want a long, happy marriage, don't you?"

Madge flinches. Apparently there's something very interesting on the countertop that she can't take her eyes off of because she clings to the lip overhanging the bottom cabinets, staring down.

"Yes, that's what I want," she says eventually, sounding like she's starting to hyperventilate.

"Good, because that's what Reggie wants too."

Madge winces again at the nickname.

"Did he say anything else?"

"Well, he asked me about you, since I said we knew each other from work," Gale continues. "He felt concerned when he learned you'd taken several days off, but I assured him that you had paid sick leave. He felt relieved, of course. What with all the kids he's got. Can't afford to marry someone frail like his first two wives, poor guy. He hasn't taken a day off in twenty years, he said."

Her jaw drops and she forgets to keep up the pretense that she knows anything about the personal life of Reginald Winterbottom. "He was married before?" she cries. "He has children?"

Gale blinks like a mildly interested devil in cherub's skin. "Didn't you know that?"

"No, he never said a word," she chokes. "H-how many?"

"Oh, not too many," says Gale, "By Seam standards, anyway."

Madge blanches and squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds. That could mean anything from four to a dozen. "More than one?" she whispers, probably hoping he can't hear her well enough to answer the question.

Gale counts the figures on his hand while Madge watches with ever-widening eyes. "I think he said ten Winterbottom kids…or was that just including the kids that are still at home?" he muses out loud.

Madge's mouth droops like a fish's. Gale starts to worry that maybe it's come unhinged and will stay that way.

"Don't worry about it too much; you'll get your chance. He sounded like he wanted more babies." Gale shrugs, purposefully misunderstanding her concern. "And you should have seen the look on his face when I told him about your income. Relieved that you weren't used to fine living, because he's sure not going to spoil you. Wouldn't want to ruin your good character."

"Character?" Madge looks a bit green in the face. Her fingers shake as she balls them into fists. She swings around to look Gale in the eye. "He didn't say anything about _his_ income, did he?" she asks. "With all those bottoms…I mean children."

"He didn't give me any numbers, naturally. He's a plumber, I think. I remember seeing the badge on his arm, pretty sure it was a plumber's union one." Gale squeezes his eyes shut, as if in concentration. "…Otherwise it might have been a parole tag."

"A delinquent plumber." She shudders and sways a little. Gale quickly leads her to the table so she can sink into a chair. "With ten children." She looks up at him with glistening, desperate eyes. "Gale, what am I going to do? I had no idea he was looking for a –baby machine! What an awful, deceitful man."

A hot tear trickles down her cheek, making Gale wonder if he's gone too far with all the kids. Then he wonders if he has as much leverage with the sink as he thought he did.

"Well, I wouldn't take it so hard—"

Madge swipes the tear away angrily. "He can't even spell," she laments with a sniffle, looking down at her lap in shame. "I overlooked it before."

Gale frowns. "He can't?"

Madge glances up at him. "I know. Isn't that awful in a grown man?" she laments, mistaking his expression.

Gale clears his throat. "There are worse things."

Madge wrings her hands in her lap, shifting around and glancing repeatedly at the door as if she expects him to burst in with all of his children and wearing pants that reveal too much of his backside.

"What am I going to do, Gale? I had no idea that he's a deceitful, money-grabbing stalker," she says to Gale and maybe the world at large. She looks down at her lap again and sniffles. "I built up such an illusion about him. I thought he was perfect."

Gale settles in the chair next to her and pats her shoulder. "I wouldn't take it so hard, Madge. A girl like you could find someone else pretty easily. In fact, I sort of wish I'd gotten to you before ol' Reggie Winterbottom."

"Don't say things like that, Gale. You should be hurrying off to your own date, not teasing me about mine. You have that pin you're supposed to give her," says Madge dejectedly, pointing at his pocket containing the pin.

Gale glances down at his jacket. "I don't think she'll want it with the bullet in the middle," he observes. "I don't think it'll mean as much broken."

"It _should_," Madge insists with a very wet voice. "It shows how brave and decent you are. Unlike some."

Gale cringes inwardly and wishes he could swallow his tongue. He feels painfully sure that she won't be think he's got an ounce of decency in him in the next few moments. She looks so pathetic he feels bad for drawing out the truth. "Listen, Madge, about tonight…"

Madge stands up from the table, ignoring him. He notices her hands are shaking again. "I better let you go. It's been quite an evening already and he'll be here any minute." Her shoulders droop. "Though I don't think I have the heart to see anyone just now."

"Come here." Gale takes her hand and leads her to the couch, making her sit, then he squeezes in next to her. "I can't leave when you're like this."

"Don't trouble yourself," she moans, though she scoots over to make room for him. She accepts the tissue he hands her from the box on the table. "You'll keep your date waiting."

"She's not waiting. Look." Gale turns so his torso faces her, resting his arm along the back of the couch. "Madge, if I'd only known in the beginning that you needed the job, and how you felt about me...things would have been different between us."

She glances down at the tissue box, embarrassed, but he keeps going. "We wouldn't have been fighting all the time. If we quarreled, it wouldn't have been over pencils," he says carefully, "...but over something like whether your father should live with us or not."

"Well, I," she begins to reply through the tissue she's holding to her nose, then her head snaps up. Her blue eyes are round and wide. The tissue disappears.

"What?"

Gale clears his throat. "I said, whether your father should live with us or not," he murmurs slowly.

Madge blinks at him and decides to laugh, a little too frantically, at what she can only imagine must be a very weird joke.

"It's sweet of you to try and cheer me up, but I think we'd better call it a night." She sidles away from him on the cushion, getting to her feet. "You have an engagement and so have I, and we shouldn't be late." She steps around the table, heading back into the kitchen.

"Wait." Gale follows her quickly, taking her by the elbow. His heart thumps in his chest. Even if she can't hear it, she must feel the pulse in his hands.

"Do you know what I wish would happen?" he says without any kind of ruse. "When your bell rings and you open the door," he says, leaning over her. "Instead of Winterbottom, I come in."

Madge gasps and shakes her head, as if she could shake the words away. "Please, don't make it more difficult for me."

But he does make it more difficult. Gale's hands grasp her other elbow, sliding his hands up her arms so he can pull her closer. She has to lean against the wall to keep a few centimeters of empty space between them. She can smell his aftershave, which isn't helping her one bit.

"And I'd say, _Dear Friend_…"

Barely hearing him, Madge struggles to free herself, but he's pressing her into the wall. He leans over her like that day on the bench, which she seems to realize. Her eyes pop and she practically tries to crawl up the wall. When she can't get away, her eyes snap shut as she tries to block him out when he lets go of her arm so he can slip her hair behind her ear. His nose brushes her cheek and she gasps.

"Oh, Gale, you mustn't—hmh!"

Gale's lips press over hers slowly with intent, stifling the rest of her protest. In nearly twenty-six years, he still hasn't learned not to grab girls and kiss them without asking. It's the secret of his charm. Caught up in the feel of her mouth against his and the way she tastes like her tears, yet sweet like she just ate a piece of fruit, it takes a while to register the pressure of her hands against his chest.

Gale backs off so she can breathe. "At PO box 237," he finishes, staring down at her bright face and closed eyes.

When she understands what she just heard – it takes a moment— Madge's eyebrows cinch together and her eyelids flutter open, before staying impossibly wide.

"237…" she breathes, eyes glazed and unfocused.

He points to himself. "451."

"You…" Madge says breathlessly. Her eyes slowly narrow in on him as reality sets in. Her trembling finger points at his chest. "Dear Friend? But R-Reggie…"

"No such person," Gale admits.

Madge passes a trembling hand over her forehead. She swallows, opens and closes her eyes a few times, as if each blink will help her understand what's happening a little bit better.

"All along?" she asks.

"All along."

"But…" she chews on her lip, "why make me believe that it was someone else?"

Gale clears his throat. "You said yourself that you thought the man in your letters was perfect," he explains. "Given our past, I thought if I wrecked your image of him, you wouldn't take it so hard when you found it's really been me all along."

"And you've known all this time?" She grimaces. "Since the restaurant."

He nods once.

Madge bites the inside of her cheek, eyes flickering in every direction but his face. Then she bursts into tears. Gale backpedals.

"Hell's teeth. Madge, I—"

"My father's going to be so happy," she sobs nonsensically into her hands.

"Uh." Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

"I need to…" she chokes, pressing against his chest to get past him.

Gale drops his arms, backing up so she can stumble toward the door. She slips through without a word or looking back at him. It closes behind her like a curtain at the end of a play. He feels like she took all of his vital organs with her when she bolted down the corridor.

Gale plunks down in a chair after feeling like he's stood around stupidly in her kitchen long enough. His communicuff peeps accusingly at him just as he leans back to knock his head against the wall.

_He's dead, _the message reads.

Haymitch probably referred to Junius. But it's probably just as true of Dear Friend.

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued…or will it? <strong>


	22. An Extra Dividend

A/N: Sorry for the wait! The last chapters are always the hardest and this one derailed me – and I had to write this one without the help of my favorite inspirational muffin! (I know! The horror!) Many thanks to all of you who reviewed this story and encouraged me. And a special thanks to anonymous reviewers!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 22<strong>

**An Extra Dividend**

* * *

><p>If hell had teeth, it would chew Gale up and spit him out again. At least, that's how he feels while he waits.<p>

Waiting never made the list of his strong points.

Gale exhales sharply, pacing deeper into the kitchen while he combs his fingers through the back of his hair. With Madge gone the apartment feels big and empty like a pit. What is he thinking? They _do_ live in a pit. Instead of her perfume, he smells the soap she uses on the dishes and that linoleum odor he'd never liked. Aside from the painting from Peeta on the wall and the library books by Henry's chair, this could be anyone's apartment, like the Undersees never really put down roots here. Kind of like his own apartment.

To distract himself, he counts to ten. He counts backward down to one. Then he decides counting is a stupid distraction. Madge has to come back eventually, right? He wonders if Henry will kick him out if he gets back first.

Probably not.

Gale faces the door and stares at it. At what point should he start following her? Where would she go? Katniss's? Gale shudders.

The clock on the wall shows that a whole minute and half ticked by since she scarpered. Ninety seconds. _Well, forget that_, he mentally rails, and strides toward the door to chase her down.

But when the door opens, he collides with a skinny blond with her hand on the keypad.

"Madge," he rasps, reaching out to brace both of them so they don't fall over.

Madge squeaks and scrambles backward away from his chest where she did a faceplant. Gale backs up too, placing himself by the kitchen table again.

"I thought you'd be halfway to Katniss's by now," he says stupidly.

Madge creeps back into the kitchen like a spooked cat, pinching the skin on her elbow with her other hand when she stops by the fridge. She stopped sobbing, but her cheeks look blotchy. She stares at the floor.

"Nowhere to go?" Gale asks, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Madge's bottom lip trembles as she shakes her head. "I remembered that this is my apartment," she sniffs, now fixating on the sink. "_You_ should get out."

Gale cringes. For a second, he thought maybe she felt suddenly better about the whole thing and came back to tell him so. Instead she just wanted to kick him out. His chest feels tight as drum as he moves for the door. A part of him can't believe telling her the truth didn't work. Maybe he did it stupidly, but doesn't she get that they're in love with each other?

Long slivery worry lines in Gale's cheeks appear as he frowns lopsidedly. He grips the doorpost before he exits and looks over his shoulder.

"That's what you want?" he checks.

Madge shrugs, refusing to look at him still.

It takes a moment to settle on Gale that she's dismissing him, that he lost. He should be used to it by now, but the end never gets any easier.

"Well, er, I know you probably won't want to see me after this." He swallows, waiting for her to deny it before going on. She's perfectly quiet though. "That won't be hard. But just in case, I'll stick to visiting Katniss and Peeta on Thursdays, unless you want that evening."

Madge's face pinches like she's trying not to cry. "You can have Thursdays," she murmurs with a watery voice. "I usually go on Tuesdays."

"Right." Gale stares at her for a second before he stops stalling. He can't believe they just had what amounted to a custody discussion over their best friends. "'Night."

Gale steps out of the apartment. It feels like empty space behind him, knowing he's never going to see that interior ever again. He feels disconnected and hazy as he turns to head up the stairs only to remember that they're closed because of the stupid code. Expending some bottled-up energy right now would've helped. Maybe he should use it to catch up on his correspondence with his mother.

Gale almost jerks back on his backside when something scrunches up the back of his jacket and tugs.

"Hell's teeth!" he curses out of surprise. For a split second he reaches for a knife or gun or anything he can use to defend himself, remembering just in time that he's a civilian again – and apart from Junius – shouldn't be knifing just anyone who sneaks up on him.

Madge huffs from behind, "Don't go, you idiot; make this better!"

Gale pivots on his heels once he regains his balance; he blinks at her angry, blotchy face. It's possibly that she's mentally unhinged, he realizes.

"You just kicked me out," he observes.

Madge releases a heavy breath and slowly inches closer till she's standing right in front of him. The red around her eyes makes the blue color looked washed out, almost gray like his.

"I changed my mind," she says stoutly, like she holds the right to give him whiplash.

Gale shoves his hands in his pockets. "To what?"

"I want you to fix this."

Gale's fingers curl with frustration in his pockets. How the hell is he supposed to do that? He just seems to make the situation worse, no matter what he does. He can't fix Madge like a sink, or restring her like a bow, or sew her back on like a button.

"_Well?" _Her eyes flash in that familiar way that makes the fine hair on his arms rise.

Down the hallway, the sound of a door opening makes them both turn their heads. Gale reaches out to grab her shoulders and carefully steer her back into the apartment, so they can have some privacy. He steps around her while shrugging off his jacket, draping it over a chair so he's just in his shirtsleeves. Is it actually hot down here for once?

"Look, Madge, I'm sorry." It's not an easy thing for him to say, especially since there are parts of his "plan" he's not sorry for at all. He's maybe just story that she didn't like how he went about it. But if he told her that, Madge would likely bludgeon him to death with a telephone, too.

Madge crosses her arms like she can guess as much from the stubborn set up of lips and eyebrows. "Try harder."

Gale's fingers tear at his hair again. It's like they're in his old office fighting. He clears his throat, knowing she has the right to be mad at him and that he shouldn't be irritated by it. But it grates him, like it always does when he has to use energy explaining something that he thinks should be obvious.

"Don't you think anything in those letters makes it worth forgiving me?" he asks. "Because I don't know what else I can tell you at this point that will help."

Madge wraps her arms around her waist, rubbing her arms like she's cold or just agitated. She gives him a black look. Apparently, admitting that he doesn't know what else to do didn't help, either.

"I…" She bites her lip to stop herself from completing the sentence.

Gale's eyes narrow shrewdly as conflicting emotions play out over her face. She looks confused, not resolved. That has to be good news for him, right?

"What?" he asks.

"I hate you," Madge stammers. Her lips tremble and she wipes the back of her hand under her nose to hide it.

"Really?"

Madge presses her lips together and goes back to hugging herself while Gale stands momentarily stunned. She took the teasing about Winterbottom being a short, breeding machine harder than he thought.

Either that, or his lack of forthrightness might be the culprit. Just an idea.

Gale steps closer to her so that she has to look at him. Maybe not necessarily in the eyes, but still at him anyway.

"Do you really hate me, Madge?" he asks lowly.

Madge stares dead center at his chest for long, stubborn moments while he watches her try to breathe steadily. Slowly, she shakes her head. No, she doesn't hate him.

"Then what's really the matter?"

Madge's eyes squeeze shut and she touches her forehead like she has a headache coming on. "It seems so impossible," she cavils about the letters. "Of all the people in the world to answer my ad and for me to choose yours to respond to…"

Gale shrugs. "It's unlikely, but true. Remember the percolator I brought your dad?" He gestures to the stove. "That's the one I bought the day I answered your ad. Do you remember that in the first letter?"

Madge's eyes widen as if she'd never seen the coffeemaker before. "I remember. And the mud on the envelopes from…"

"I lived in the Wigh Valley at the time. We were just starting to survey near Flint Creek. Muddy."

"My father fixated on those silly stains. Probably because he didn't like the whole idea of the letters," Madge grumbles as much to herself as to Gale. She groans. "It should have been so obvious though; we worked together! How did I not see it?"

"I guess we don't see what we aren't looking for." That's the only way he can explain how they missed noticing.

Madge frowns at him. "But, Gale, you lied to me when you _did_ know," she continues. "I can forgive you for your undercover role with the agency, but _this?" _She points to the place over her heart. "Do you have any idea how much this hurts?"

"I know," he says gently. "I remember how it felt when _I _found out – knowing that in no way could I show up at your table and have you happy to see me."

Gale shifts uncomfortably on his feet while Madge thinks about this. They're in a close huddle, but as much as he'd like to reach out and touch her, it feels like an invisible force field stands between them. If he stuck his hand out, the air would crackle and he'd end up with a burned fingers.

Madge's eyes flick to his own, then around the kitchen as if she's afraid she'll lose her resolve if she looks at him too much. "It would have been better to know the truth. I had a right to know," she insists. "I thought he never came and it crushed me."

"And you would've been crushed if you'd known," he tells her firmly. "I _meant_ to tell you, but we both lost our tempers quickly. You didn't want to know the truth; you wanted some perfect, mythological man to show up."

Madge gapes at Gale as he exposes her. She resembles an ice sculpture, but he didn't say those things to hurt her.

"I wanted the same thing," he quickly amends so that she knows he's just as guilty. "I thought I finally hooked the perfect woman. But it's just us. Better to let you think your letter-writing friend never showed than to find out you were meeting Eyebrows, or whatever you used to call me at the office."

"How can you say that?" she demands. Gale wonders if she'd stamp her feet if she had shoes on.

Gale reaches for her hand only to remember the pretend force field. For now he has to observe it, if only to make her listen without running off again.

"Because you wouldn't have given me a chance after that," he points out. "What would you have done if it had been reversed?"

Madge plunks down in her chair at the table and hangs her head. "I have no idea," she admits, skimming her finger around the curve of the table.

Gale sits in his usual spot next to hers. A pile of Henry's mail sits stacked on the farthest corner, flanked by nondescript salt and pepper shakers. They sway back and forth when he leans against the table too hard. He and Madge both reach out to straighten them, only to pull back quickly when they notice the other doing the same.

Madge goes back to hanging her head. He stares at the side part in her hair that's slightly askew. It reminds him that they've both had an incredibly long day. It doesn't look like it's ending anytime soon.

"Listen, I blew it," he declares with a hint of his usual impatience, causing Madge to glance up. "I am well aware of that. But do you think it would've felt better finding out that night when we both hated each other? At least you know that truth now that we're friends."

He leans back in his seat to let her think that over. The pin his jacket pocket digging into his back. He reaches behind himself to find it, pulls it out and drop it on the table between them. They both stare down at the ruined gold and the bullet lodged in the center.

Gale grimaces with embarrassment for bringing her what amounts to a piece of junk. "I meant to give this to you tonight," he admits darkly.

"For me?" she gasps.

Gale gives a curt nod. "To replace the pin you gave Katniss," he explains. "And maybe to make it a little harder for you to stay angry at me for lying for so long." He stares at his knuckles; the embarrassment makes it hard to look her in the eye. "Probably a stupid idea. I don't know. Not that it matters now that it's ruined."

Madge stares at the pin. She's so quiet that Gale feels his insides dissolving along with his chances. She grew up with the mayor of District 12 as a father. She gave away a gold pin like a normal person would give away a piece of slate from the slag heaps. No big deal. And here he is trying to impress her with broken junk. Classic Seam screw-up. Before she can tell him how stupid he is for trying to bribe her with a ruined pin, he gets up from the table again and grabs his jacket too. He didn't believe it when she said she hated him. He won't believe it, but maybe the garbage between them really is insurmountable. The pin's proof.

"Where are you going?" she asks when he reaches the door, tearing her eyes away from the pin.

Gale stares ahead so he can't see the judgment in her eyes. "I figured you want me to go. Shouldn't have said anything about the pin."

Madge leans over the back of her chair so she can touch his wrist from behind, making him turn around. "Why?" she asks.

"The pin's ruined," he repeats woodenly.

Madge's face pinches. It makes her look sad and that hurts him more than the bullet would've if the pin hadn't been in the way, convincing him that he can't fix this.

"I'll go," he says.

Madge grips his arm, pulling herself out of the chair. She inserts herself between him and the door. Gale has to stare at her for a moment because he can't figure out what the heck she wants. "Wait," she says.

She's blocking the door, so he waits. Madge takes a deep breath, then opens her eyes wide like she's staring over a cliff before she has to jump off of it.

"I want you to stay…it's just…I should be _very_ angry with you," she says, gently pounding her fist against his chest. He lets her do it a couple more times, punctuating each thought. "For lying to me, teasing me, and smarming up to my father," she grouses.

Gale takes the beating quietly until he grunts when she gets him where the bullet bruised him. A red haze clouds his eyesight and he quickly clutches the bit of shirt over his heart.

Madge quickly pulls her hands away and retreats to her chair. "Sorry!"

"I earned it," Gale chokes. He has to uncross his eyes and get a grip on himself as the pain pulses in his tender chest. He coughs once or twice.

Madge sidles past him to the freezer where she pulls out a piece of frozen, shrink-wrapped chicken breast. She tugs him back into his chair and makes him hold the chicken up to his heart.

Madge plops back into her seat, elbows on the table again.

"I didn't mean to really hurt you," she murmurs.

"You don't pull your punches. A bit like Junius," he grunts, causing Madge to bite her lip and look chagrined. "You both know where to get me."

They sit quietly while Gale nurses his bruise with the frozen chicken. "Still angry?" he asks when the shrink-wrap starts to drip a little.

"I need to think," she mumbles against her hands.

"What have you been—" Gale shuts up.

Fine. Let her think. Maybe he didn't feel as sure as he's making it sound right now, but that fact that he's still in the apartment and she's listening to him has to mean something. She's got to forgive him or he'll…threaten to put all the tarp back on his furniture.

"Anything?" Gale asks after about a minute.

Madge sighs through her nose. "I can't think when you're looking at me."

Gale stifles a groan. He drops the chicken onto the table and then goes to stand by the sink. A beer would be good right about now. And maybe a chat with Bristel to help lighten the atmosphere. He goes for the next best thing, which is tea. He puts water in the empty percolator to boil, while he retrieves mugs from the cabinet and a tea tin. He leafs through the different packets, looking for peppermint. An old favorite from home. Meanwhile, his stomach grumbles loudly to remind him that he hasn't eaten for a while.

Even Madge hears it and looks up from the table. "Was that you?"

Gale crooks an eyebrow at her. "A crisis and an empty stomach. Old times."

Madge laughs unexpectedly, causing Gale to drop the teabag he held. She laughs until she's crying into her hands again, which seems to undermine the point of the joke at District 12's expense. Gale wonders if she'll ever come out from between her hands again. He abandons the tea and takes his seat at the table, staring at her knuckles. Still, the sound of her laughter breaks the tension and Gale feels himself relax. Maybe this date won't end in complete and utter ruin.

"I've been such a fool and you've unfairly known all along." She wipes her hands beneath her eyes to dry the moisture. "But…I'm willing to concede that this may not a complete crisis. Not like the kind we were up against as kids."

Gale's face scrunches in confusion. "Good. Maybe."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Besides the fact that you just did? Sure," Gale replies.

Madge's lips purse, staring at the hollow below Gale's throat while she adjusts her thoughts. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, then shyly looks up into his eyes.

"The first night you made dinner here, we washed dishes together. I asked why you were staying in the Underground after you were fired, and you said you had to look after an investment," she pauses to take a breath and blink, "Did you mean…_me_?"

She blushes, like she's presuming too much and horrified that she might be wrong. Like she's afraid he'd laugh at her. Gale doesn't laugh.

"I meant you."

Madge's shoulders droop like she's suddenly allowed herself to relax. She looks relieved and confused and embarrassed all mixed. It sort of amazes Gale that one person can feel all of those things at once.

Madge holds up her palms as if the gesture would help her understand better. "But…at the time we didn't even like each other. After the horrible way we behaved, especially when you came to the restaurant…why did you bother?"

Gale gently reaches across the corner of table between them and winds his fingers in the hair spilling over her shoulders. It's soft and silky, like he remembers from the night she fell asleep on her couch. She flinches in surprise when he touches her, but she lets him anyway. Her blue eyes hold his while she waits for him to explain and he can't look away.

"I don't think you realize how important your letters became to me, Madge," he murmurs. "I depended on them just as much as you did on mine."

Madge's chest stops rising and falling like she's holding her breath. "Oh."

"So, you see?" he continues, smoothing the wavy strands away from her cheek. "I had to try."

"I suppose so." She swallows.

Since Madge is awake this time, Gale risks getting slapped to press a fast kiss to her forehead. She's at least starting to understand what's been going on in his head the last month, so he figures she won't bolt. Maybe just beat him again. He frees his hand from her hair so that she can think about it.

Instead, Madge squeaks and touches her forehead where his lips were. Her fingers stay glued there, either blocking a second attempt or holding in the feeling.

"Now are you still angry?" he asks while she stares at him like a spooked guppy. He gives her a sideways grin because he doubts it at this point.

Madge shakes her head. Slowly, the corners of her mouth turn up as all the pieces come together. "I can't seem to manage it."

"Does that mean you forgive me?"

Madge holds her chin up and sniffs. "I shouldn't. At least, not yet. I should drag it out and make you suffer for what you've done," she adds, rubbing the skin between her eyebrows. "But you depleted my emotional energy by being _such_ a cheater."

Gale frowns. "Cheater?"

Madge gives him an exasperated look. "You've been teasing me for weeks – buttering me up," she accuses. "I should have known that you were being so nice for a reason, so that you could have the advantage over me."

Gale tweaks a strand of her hair. "With you, I needed every advantage I could get, crazy girl. Aren't you just a _little_ relieved that Winterbottom didn't show up tonight?"

Madge rises to the bait. "_Reggie Winterbottom_. Ugh. You have no heart," she scoffs. "Honestly, where do you come up with these things?"

Gale nods in the direction of the living room. "Your dad's book on _How_ _to Win Over Babies and Influence Toddlers:_ _A_ _Grandparents' Guide_ by R. Winterbottom. It's by his chair."

Madge's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Grandparents' guide?" Then her nose wrinkles up with embarrassment as the implication sinks in. "The library must not have had anything good that my dad wanted to check out."

Gale laughs darkly. "Yeah, you think that." Her dad's a scheming Undersee, if he learned anything from their last conversation on Level 4, and he's not about to forget it. "Personally, I think Henry's having fun preparing for the future." And he's only got one idea about how that's going to work.

Madge reaches around the thawing chicken to swipe the pin off of the table. Gale freezes while she studies it for a bit, her fingers skimming over the crumpled gold. He wonders if she's going to stab him with the bent clasp or something. It catches him off-guard when she suddenly looks up and presses a kiss on the corner of his mouth instead. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as she lingers there. Normally he'd just turn his face a little to make it a real kiss, but she has the advantage of surprise.

Madge pulls back looking shocked by her own behavior, but not ashamed of it. "This is the sweetest thing anyone's ever given me," she murmurs over the pin while a blush spreads over her cheeks. "And it saved your life."

Gale clears his throat, still feeling a bit suspicious about whether she's going to stab him, despite the kiss. "Is this you forgiving me or luring me in?"

Madge smiles. "I forgive you."

_Whew. _Gale releases a long breath. "We could try to get the pin fixed," he tells her. "If you want it."

"Why?" she asks. "It's like a memento."

Gale scratches his chin. "Are mementos cheaper than getting it fixed?"

Madge laughs. "Yes, silly. It just needs one of those nice little display boxes."

Display boxes make Gale think of Horatio, the high-strung and opinionated jeweler, which gives his shoulder muscles knots. But cheaper sounds fine to Gale. He scoots his chair closer to Madge's in the wake of the unexpected victory with the pin.

"What stone did it have before the bullet hit it?" Madge asks about the pin.

Gale strokes the apple of her cheek with his thumb. "Sapphire. Like your eyes," he tells her. "I bet we can find it in the office if we look."

Madge's eyes snap open and her lips purse, causing Gale to snatch back his hand in case a stabbing will commence anyway. "I suppose you got over the bags under my eyes," she says out of the blue.

"What bags?" he gibbers.

Madge rolls her eyes. "The ones you said I had," she huffs. "You told Terry, remember? He told Junius and Junius – or was it Junius you told first? – well, someone told Ilona and then she told me—"

Gale picks up the cold chicken breast and holds it to his forehead. "I solemnly swear never to work in an office again."

Madge combs the hair off of his forehead, out of the way of the dripping chicken packaging. "Well, is it true or not?" she asks crisply.

"What?" The skin on his forehead crinkles barely beneath the chicken. "Oh, no. I never see any bags under your eyes. Your face has a kind of sparkle to it. And when you're angry and your eyes flash…I had a hard time concentrating on what we were arguing about."

Madge takes a shuddering breath, covering both her burning cheeks with her hands. She finally got used to fighting with him. Receiving compliments will take some getting used to. She laughs softly, though.

"I think you see what you want to see," says between her hands, making it hard for him to see much of _anything_ but her fingers and the pin glinting in the florescence between them.

Gale shrugs. He's not in the mood to analyze himself anymore tonight. He drops the chicken on the table again and jumps up from his chair. He pulls her up with him, causing her to gasp.

"Well, Madge," he quips, "are you going to finish this date or are you going to keep blushing behind your hands?"

Madge peeks at him from between her fingers and blushes more. But she drops her hands. There's a little mark on her cheek where she held the pin against it. His hands grip her elbows and slide up her arms, making her step into him.

"You mean, go out?" she stammers, like his hands are interfering with her brain waves. "Us?"

"Sounds about right." He grins the way people do when someone they love isn't catching on quite as quickly as she should.

Madge's eyes fill with something like regret. She turns the pin over in her hands. "I think _I_ should apologize first."

Gale shrugs carelessly. All this apologizing makes him go twitchy after a while.

"It's just…" she turns the pin faster and fast. He grabs her hands, pressing them to his chest so she'll cut it out. He pulls the pin out of her fingers and tosses it onto the table.

Madge's eyes lose focus. "Um."

"You were saying?"

Madge clears her throat. "Gale," she says formally. "I said things that I regret…"

"We both behaved pretty badly," he points out.

"But when you came to the Broken Oar that night." She cringes. "I was pretty rude, wasn't I?"

Gale brushes it aside. "No, not too bad."

Madge frowns like he must be insane to forget. "Yes, I was. Don't you remember?" she insists.

"No need to remind—"

She pushes against his chest to give herself a few inches of space. "I said your heart was a cuckoo clock that doesn't work."

Gale rubs his scratchy chin and frowns at the empty space between them. "Yeah…doesn't feel any better the second time around." Which is why he doesn't understand the need to talk about every little thing that happened. He just wants to move to the happier, hands-on part of the relationship.

Madge looks at him shrewdly. "And what I said about your back?"

"Would you like me to pull my shirt off now?" he teases.

Madge's ears turn pink, but she still has that shrewd look. "Well…maybe?"

Gale smirks and backs up a little so he doesn't whack her with an elbow while he untucks his undershirt. Madge holds onto the door handle for support while he peels it off, revealing his sculpted arms and torso. He tosses it over his jacket and tries to flatten his hair back down. His chest has a bruise on it any guy would be proud of and the bandage on his shoulder has started to show signs of blood. Madge gets an eyeful of his chest first, then steps around – fingers light and warm over the scars.

"See?" Gale says unsteadily. He can feel her warm breath on his skin, too "Not so bad."

Madge comes back around and throws her arms around Gale's neck – which hurts his shoulder, but he manages to keep that to himself. He leans into her, all softness and warmth, making her step back until there's nowhere to go and nothing but clothes between them. Her eyelids flutter, then close expectantly.

When he doesn't immediately kiss her, Madge opens one eye to see what the hold-up is.

"You're not going to bolt on me this time, are you, brat?" Gale teases.

Madge sniffs delicately. "I can't," she says. "You're squishing me to the door."

That works.

Gale's lips barely whisper over hers once, just to feel them again.

"Okay?" he murmurs next to her mouth.

Madge makes an impatient noise and turns her head, so that his lips have to graze over hers. He grins against her mouth and kisses her the way he'd imagined in his head since washing dishes with her that day in this kitchen. It's like meeting the woman of his letters for the first time, the way it should have been. Her body relaxes in his arms, balling her fingers in his hair. His arm slides behind her back, untucking a section of her shirt from her skirt and dipping his fingers just below her waistband. His other hand smoothes upward, tickling her ribs. Madge shivers and makes a small sound against his mouth.

The small pressure of her hands against his chest gives him pause and he releases her, even though he feels like a man in a desert deprived of a cup of water after only a sip. He straightens up, watching her.

Madge release his neck, but he doesn't let her go. He kisses her between her jaw and throat.

"Gale?" she breathes.

"What?" he rasps against her throat.

"I've lost feeling in my arms. Maybe we should take this to the living room?"

Gale perks up. Oh, the glorious living room. With the glorious couch.

…

Two minutes after the lamps were turned down. And thirty seconds since the throw pillows landed on the floor next to Gale's boots. Maybe ten minutes went by since Madge forgot about the buttons on her blouse. Five minutes past Gale's hair took on the shape of a haystack. Maybe another ten since the feeling left her leg because the couch isn't quite big enough for both of them.

"Did you hear that?" Madge asks breathlessly while Gale wreaks havoc on her collar bone.

"It's just the couch creaking," he mumbles against her skin.

"It sounded like the door. Like...hissing."

"Percolator." They forgot it on the rangetop.

"Gale, I think—"

Lights.

Madge sits up so quickly she nearly bumps noses with Gale. He sits up and blinks blindly around to see who the intruder is.

They all receive a shock as the brightness stings their eyes – but perhaps Henry gets the worst of it. After all, shirtless Gale happens to be pinning his daughter to the bottom of the couch. Such things don't happen every day.

"Daddy?" Madge gasps.

"Oh!" Henry gasps next to the lamp by his chair, which he switched on. He pretends to see something fascinating on the ceiling. "I didn't hear you over the sound of the percolator, which _someone_ left on. And it wasn't me, this time," he says archly. Madge's mouth pops open. "Oh look. Cobwebs."

Gale quickly detaches himself from the ex-mayor's daughter, trying to look the proper amount of chagrined versus how severely annoyed he really feels after being interrupted. Madge's color is already high; she just looks scandalized. She gawks at her father in horror, so Gale has to lean forward to button her shirt back up for her.

As the initial surprise wears off, Henry stops counting cobwebs and says, "I take it your friend didn't show up," he remarks pleasantly to Madge before he gives Gale a sardonic look. "But at least you found someone else to keep you company. More sewing lessons, I see?"

Madge blinks in confusion, looking for the evidence that would make her father think they were sewing. Gale decides not to enlighten her about that particular new euphemism, considering how she reacted to Haymitch's pencils.

Instead, Gale cocks his head to the side, having forgotten that Mr. Undersee didn't know about him as the letter writer. He glances at Madge, then back at Henry. "Well, sir, uh…Madge, do you want to?…"

Madge sinks against Gale's side and exhales. "I'm too muddled to explain it to him."

Gale laughs, wrapping his arm around Madge's shoulders.

Henry blinks – not unlike Madge, Gale realizes. "Explain what?"

"Nothing," they say in unison.

"I see." Henry gets a satisfied little smile on his face. He clasps his hands behind his back and crosses the carpet to his bedroom door. "Well, carry on. Er, but not too much." He gives them what's meant to be a stern look and then disappears.

With her father safely locked away in his room, Madge buries her face in Gale's shoulder. "I forgot all about him coming home," she groans. "I've never even been caught holding hands before, let alone…." She clutches her blouse and blushes harder. He wonders if the blush goes all the way down. "I'm so embarrassed."

Gale runs his hand up and down her arm. "It's not so bad. I've been caught lots of times. It's—"

She gives him a jaundiced look.

Gale clears his throat. "But this time was the best."

Madge rolls her eyes and kisses Gale's cheek. "He _is _going to have to live with us, you know," she sighs.

"I'm afraid so," says Gale. Which means he's going to have to learn some new board games. Or, you know, get another job that will get him out of the house all day.

"And you do know he's eavesdropping on us," she murmurs, with a hint in her eyes.

Gale pats his empty, bare stomach. "Well, as fun as this has been, I'm hungry. Maybe we should grab something to eat?"

"But it's so late," says Madge, looking at the clock. She's practical about the oddest things, he notes.

"Broken Oar's open still." And then Gale gets a gleam in his eyes. "Or, we could stop by Peeta and Katniss's place."

"They won't mind?" Her brows knits together. "I think they might be asleep."

"Naw," he says, kissing her nose. "They're night owls. Especially Peeta."

Madge frowns in thought. "That doesn't make any sense. He's a baker."

"Trust me." He gives her a wolfish grin, now definitely set on visiting the Mellarks tongiht.

"Well," she says suspiciously, "I suppose we should tell them we're getting along now. I think they'll be happy for us."

Not only will they be happy, Gale notes, Katniss will finally take him off of her hit list for breaking Madge's heart.

"And they have pastries," he says while he ties his boots back on.

Madge replaces the pillows on the couch, but pauses at the sound of pastries. "What is it this time?"

"Every flavor of danish known to mankind," he tells her. "And I guess Katniss demanded cheese buns with chocolate custard filling."

Madge wrinkles her nose at the awful combination. "I don't know what I'll do for sweets when they move back to Twelve."

Well, there is that. Gale decides to worry about it later. He pulls Madge up beside him when he gets off the couch to help her into her jacket, only to remember she hasn't got it anymore. It puts him in an even better mood when he figures it'll save him the time of helping her out of it again later.

"Ouch," she gasps, wobbling on her right leg.

Gale reaches out to steady her. "Alright?" he asks.

"You squashed my leg and now it's all prickly," she tells him, though it doesn't sound like a complaint. "And now you're hair's a mess. Better let me fix it before we go."

Gale submits to her fussing for about half a minute before he straightens up out of her reach and insists he doesn't care what his hair looks like, can't they just go?

"Put your shirt on," Madge orders as she disappears into her room.

Gale wanders into the kitchen, shutting off the percolator before retrieving his shirt. Madge meets him in the kitchen with a pair of shoes and her own hair combed just as he's tugging on his jacket. He gives her a wry look, as if to ask why she'd been primping. It took him forever to give her that mussed up look.

"I don't want anyone _else _to guess what we've been up to," she says airily. "My father's one person too many, as it is."

Gale laughs and opens the door for her, but she stops suddenly and he notices her shoulders shaking, too.

"What?"

Madge stifles a giggle with her hand. "Gale, what part of that ad made you want to answer it? I honestly can't picture you reading it with anything but a sneer on your face."

Gale shrugs and threads his arm through hers, dragging her down the corridor. "It sounded fancy and I lived in the backwaters of Flint Creek with the Flannel Shirt Squad. Pink letters covered in perfume made a nice contrast."

"I didn't know you liked fancy," she replies with her eyebrows arched. "You don't strike me as the type."

Gale stares down his nose at her. "I think we should both have learned a little something about not assuming types by now," he points out. "Besides, I do like fancy stuff."

"Such as?" she challenges.

"Fancy Undersees." He shrugs. "Fancy ketchup."

Madge makes Gale stop and face her. "So, you aren't disappointed?" she asks earnestly.

"Nope," Gale tells her with a smile that suggests he's going to mess up her hair again. He pulls her in. "It's an extra dividend when you like the girl you've fallen in love with."

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Concluded<strong>


	23. Stay With Me, Go Places

**A/N: **Thanks you all for reading and letting me know what you thought of the story. It's been fun.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 23 "Epilogue"<strong>

**Stay With Me, Go Places**

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile…back in Twelve.<em>

Gale rubs his forehead, hoping to wipe away the headache forming there. Between having to listen to _Ain't No Rest for the Wicked_ drifting back from the Hobgoblin's cockpit for the dozenth time and the Mellarks arguing in circles, he's a frazzled man.

"But Katniss, we can't live away from the bakery. That's unheard of," Peeta tries to explain calmly, even as he starts mangling the paper bag of frosted cookies he brought for Prim.

In District 12, merchants always lived above or behind their shops. Nobody could afford to keep two buildings, but that's not exactly a problem for Family Mockingjay with the government subsidizing their existence.

"A Mellark always lived in the town bakery ever since the Dark Days."

Katniss and Gale glance at each other over the map they have unfolded across each other's knees. They sit next to each other in the row of three seats, leaving Peeta pressed up against the window. At least the view is nice.

"I don't want to live in town," Katniss repeats blandly.

The sound of a cookie crushed to crumbs comes from inside the bag on his lap, a bit like Peeta's sanity and dreams. "But the bakery, Katniss…"

"Nobody's going to walk off with it while you're asleep." She takes the bag away from him and stows it under the seat in front of Gale, which means he can't put his feet there anymore. He glowers, then thrusts his left leg under the seat in front of Katniss's and his right leg out into the aisle. It's not like anyone's coming anyway.

"But where will we live?" Peeta continues plaintively.

Gale clears his throat and points to a ridge on the west side of the district. "They're selling parcels here."

"In the woods?" Peeta asks.

Katniss and Gale glance up again.

"Peeta," says Katniss reasonably, "the woods aren't as dangerous as you think. It's not like in our Games when Gamemakers stocked it full of monsters."

"I'm not afraid," he says stoutly. "I just think we need to be near our business. Plus, there's the baby. Living that far away from town and all…did you know that the slightest change in body temperature could indicate a fatal infection in a newborn?"

Katniss touches her barely-discernible stomach underneath her tunic. There's the slightest wrinkle of worry on her forehead. "Peeta, that's still a ways off."

Peeta's deaf to her reasoning. "And then we'd need medical assistance," he continues. "Which, yeah, I guess we could trek through the woods with a sick baby to get to your mother – _who lives in town_." Peeta knows Katniss's weaknesses, one of which is caring for the ill. Her stony expression belies a cold dread, Gale bets. "I mean, unless you can handle a crying child with a raging fever…do you even know where to check for a temperature?"

Katniss stares at Peeta, then narrows her eyes. "Do you?"

Peeta pushes his hair off of his forehead. "Yes. You aren't going to like where it is," he says earnestly. If Gale had said that, it would've been a taunt.

When she turns to Gale to enlighten her, he jabs his thumb in the air, in the exact same gesture he used to mean _Up yours, Peacekeepers_.

Katniss glowers at Peeta like it's his fault. "In the backside? No."

Gale starts folding up the map because the planning session has officially dissolved into nonsense. "Other option: have Prim move in."

Katniss and Peeta don't look at each other. "That could be awkward," says Peeta.

Gale blinks as the implication sets in; the Undersees are contagious that way. "Hell's teeth," he grouses at the both of them. "Show a little restraint."

Katniss glares at Gale, but Peeta says, "We were finally going to have uninterrupted evenings again—" He stops, realizes who he's talking to, and stuffs a cookie in his mouth that managed to fall out of the bag when Katniss snatched it.

Okay, so Gale and Madge were maybe a little enthusiastic about getting free meals and more pastries than they had a right to eat when they started dating. The trouble is, Henry kept getting underfoot. If they made dinner together, Henry'd be there. If they wanted to christen more of Gale's unwrapped furniture, he'd bring over the Rob the Hob board and insist they play. (Gale still doesn't know how Henry got his apartment number. Madge wouldn't look him in the eye when he asked.) They'd run out of options! Gale knew Katniss probably wanted to move into a secret broom closet after the first month of them always dropping in, but Gale figured Peeta at least had to enjoy having company around. Guess he figured wrong.

Gale's half-tempted to tell Peeta that his feelings are hurt just to jerk him around, since Peeta probably cares about that kind of thing. But then he'd have to pretend to be a marshmallow around another guy and he can't stomach it. Katniss would see right through him anyway.

"I'm heading back to my seat," he says instead. "You two figure this housing thing out on your own."

Just as he stands up with his map, the pilot calls back to warn them all to keep their seat belts on as they hit some mild turbulence. Gale ignores it in typical fashion and cracks his skull on the overhead compartment when it feels like they just ran over the atmospheric equivalent of a cow. Gale swears and rubs the top of his head while he shambles back up the aisle to rejoin Madge and Henry. Whoever put the hovercraft together didn't have the tall Hawthorne men in mind.

Gale shrugs back into the aisle seat next to Madge. She folds up a Panem newspaper and tucks it in the chair pocket in front of her.

"I'm back," he mutters.

She squeezes his hand where it lies on the armrest between them. "Any progress?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose while he answers. "Nope. They still don't know where they want to build a house. Or if they want to build a house. Or if Katniss will be able to take PeeWee Mellark's temperature."

"Haymitch said that many of the Victor's Village houses are still vacant," Madge replies.

Gale pushes against the _headrest_, which is more like a neckrest to him. "Sounds like paradise," he mutters.

"I know they'd hate the idea," Madge continues despite his surly tone, "But they already had homes there, it's not quite in town and Katniss can still disappear to the woods when she needs to. I doubt anyone would contest their claim to the houses."

Gale could rag on about the Victor's Village, but relents. She's only trying to help. "They're running out of time, so they might not have a choice unless they want to rough it at the hotel or live with her mother again."

The hotel isn't for tourists, of course. Panem hasn't improved that dramatically and there's nothing of interest to attract anyone in Twelve anyway. The "Mockingjay Birthplace" obviously burned with the district. So much for the tour. The hotel was built for refugees needing a place to stay while they find out if they can or want to move back again and where to build.

Although, some like his family just squatted on Victor Village property until their homes were built. The Everdeens were already lodged in Katniss's home and Hazelle took over management of Haymitch's place where she had worked for a short time as housekeeper instead of using one of the vacant lots. When Gale questioned her about it the wisdom of that choice, she claimed she already knew her way around the house – especially all the best hiding places – which she used to hide the money he sent her since district security hadn't quite caught up with the returning refugees. And then, Haymitch clearly wasn't coming back anytime soon, so she didn't have to worry about fighting over the place.

Of course, that's what Gale always used to think about himself, too. Not coming back. Goes to show how wrong a guy can be.

…

"Look at how much they've rebuilt of the square," Madge exclaims at the view from the hovercraft window, giving them a panoramic view of the district. The town looks dusty as ever, but not with soot. They can see the outlines of finished buildings and the skeletons of new ones, homes most likely.

Madge frowns. "The square looks so strange without the Justice Building."

"Well, it's been several years since they started building again, my dear," Henry points out. "And I think that structure will hardly be missed."

Despite the relative emptiness of the patch town sprawl in the Seam and the row houses in Town, Twelve looks just how he remembers in the early autumn because he's looking beyond the border of the district: it's sunny still, a little warm and dusty because the rains haven't hit yet. Gale's eyes hungrily take in the cool hills just starting to hint at golds and russets, wondering if the current citizens of Twelve have maintained the fence or pulled it down for good. Some of the perimeter around the district shows scars from the fires, but the forest recovered quickly over the last five years, drawing the wounds into itself and covered them in green. Hazelle said the Meadow came back right away, somehow healthier for the fire. The colors of autumn wildflowers choke the stretch of grassland with whites, yellows and purples. He can already hear it calling his name.

The hovercraft dips to the side as the pilot circles the landing pad, losing altitude and speed.

"I think our house got knocked down, Daddy," Madge continues quietly. "Something's there, but I can't tell what."

"I doubt much could be saved," says Henry resignedly. He stopped looking out the window first.

Madge leans back in her seat, squinting at the seat in front of her while she tries to school her features into indifference. She slips a couple of times. Gale bumps her knee with his, but she pretends not to notice. She can't possibly have thought that the mansion survived the incendiaries, but knowing about something doesn't always mean the one's prepared for it.

"Okay, Madge?" Gale whispers.

"Fine," she replies crisply. She starts gathers their things before he can get her to tell the truth. She pulls her carry-on out from under the seat. "Dad, I think we'd better apply sunscreen before we land. After living underground for so long the doctor said our skin will be extra sensitive."

Henry turns his nose up at the bottle she tries to hand him. "How's a lotion supposed to protect against the sun better than staying indoors?"

"You won't want to stay indoors all the time we're here, Daddy," she points out. Then she turns to Gale. "Do you have the hotel reservation?"

Gale frowns. "It's in my pocket, Madge. Like I said when you asked the last two times. It'll be fine."

"And the gifts for your mother and brothers. You packed those right?"

Gale gently grasps her chin. "Madge, it's your day off. In fact, you have an entire week off. Stop being the manager."

"I'm not being the manager," she sulks.

Managing's what she does when she's nervous or agitated, Gale's learned. And to think she'd called him bossy, once.

"I was never good at taking time off either," Henry remarks, earning a reproachful frown from his daughter.

"They never let you have time off, Daddy," Madge says sharply, freeing her chin from Gale's grip.

Henry purses his lips. "Well, there is that."

"Everyone just sit back and relax," Gale orders, shuffling his long legs around the tiny space between him and the seat in front and growing exasperated. He noticed that Henry had the same problem during the flight. "We're just going home."

That doesn't help much. This is the trip they've been avoiding for half a decade. Madge reaches out to hold her dad's hand while the hovercraft touches down. Then she reaches for Gale's. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, letting her know he's all right and she should be, too.

…

"I could get used to flying," Henry observes when the pilot gives them the clear to get out of their seats, "if I didn't have the peculiar feeling that my stomach's in my throat during the landing."

_Amen_, Gale silently agrees. His stomach still feels like it's stuck in his throat. Although, that could be because he just glimpsed his family for the first time in far too long. And not just his family, either. The Everdeens have come out to welcome Peeta and Katniss home. His adrenaline kicked in as soon as he saw that group of black and gold heads, making it hard for him to think past the cloud of nervous energy surrounding him.

Gale unbuckles himself and gets up to stretch while Madge tries to force antiemetic pills on her father. He glances at the window across the aisle from their seats, where he can see them all standing at the edge of the landing pad. Prim, the shortest blond stick figure, alternates perching on one leg, arms hugged round her middle and seeming to bob up and down.

"You better get off first," Gale calls back to Katniss and Peeta who are already on their feet and their things gathered down from the overhead bins. "Prim's going to fly away any moment."

Katniss bends at the waist to look through her window and grins. "Poor little duck."

"When will you tell them?" he asks, since Peeta and Katniss made a point to keep the baby a surprise for when they got to see her family in person. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Gale would kind of like to see their faces when they find out. He always liked to eavesdrop on Prim's happiness back in the day; it made Seam life less grim.

"Tonight, I guess," Katniss replies, still watching Prim bob up and down. "We're supposed to have dinner with your family."

Makes sense, Gale reflects. Their families sort of blended together when they started hunting years ago. Hazelle always acted like Katniss was just another daughter. The fact that she looked more like Posy than Prim helped the illusion.

Peeta takes Katniss's bag and nudges her toward the exit. "If we get out there you won't have to look at Prim through a window," he laughs. "And Prim can give her legs a break."

Gale ducks into the row of seats so they can pass him.

Captain McFarlane, who also serves as flight attendant and purser, appears from the cockpit to open the door for them and signal to the ground crew to help him lower the airstair. He hands off the Mellark's bags to unseen hands and ushers them out of his fuselage.

Peeta and Katniss disappear with a jaunty, "Thanks for flying Quintus Airlines! Keep flying with me and one day I'll be able to afford a stewardess."

Gale turns back to Madge and Henry with a grin. "Wanna see this?" He gestures for them to look out the other windows. Madge squeezes in next to him in the same row so he snakes an arm around her waist, wrinkling her blue linen dress while they witness the first reunion.

Prim bounds across the tarmac, leaving her mother in her wake, and bowls into Katniss, who trips backward into Peeta. Fortunately, he catches her. Gale can't hear, but he imagines that there's some happy bawling on Prim's part and affectionate yet wooden, "There, there's" on Katniss's. Peeta makes a remark that they both laugh at just as Mrs. Everdeen finally catches up. After a brief hesitation, she gives Katniss a hug, then Peeta.

Mrs. Everdeen's eyes narrow shrewdly at Katniss once she steps back. With a glance at Peeta, she says something that makes Peeta scratch the top of his head and Katniss's eyebrows shoot up. Peeta glances back at the hovercraft and says something to the others and ushers them off of the landing pad, possibly averting having to reply to whatever Mrs. Everdeen said. Prim snags Katniss's hand and her mother's, towing them along before remembering that Peeta might need help with the bags.

"Chalk one up for Mrs. E," Gale laughs. "I think she figured out their big surprise. Didn't take too long either."

Henry gives Gale a knowing look. "Parents are occasionally perceptive," he remarks.

Gale's smile droops. Doesn't he know it?

Madge gulps. "I think it's your turn now," she says to Gale. He follows her line of sight to where his family still waits, making his chest stutter. He doesn't know what Madge is so nervous about; he's the one with a reckoning to face.

He rubs the back of his neck. "I guess."

The pilot clears his throat, making them all jump, having forgotten about him. "Thank you for flying Quintus Airlines," he calls. "Please get off my hovercraft."

Gale has to let go of Madge so they can edge between the seats, back into the main aisle. He pulls down their bags from the overhead compartments and passes them to Madge and then to Henry.

"Feel free to leave the blonde," Captain McFarlane quips. He leers as Henry leads Madge and Gale to the exit. "Er, the short one."

Madge blinks before it occurs to her that she's the short one. Then she blushes and follows her father out onto the airstairs. Someone from the ground crew takes their luggage so they can climb down using the railing.

"Quintus," Gale grouses as he passes.

The pilot quirks a studded eyebrow and smiles pleasantly. "Hmm?"

"Shut up."

The pilot winks at Gale and ushers him out the door with a little extra oomph.

…

Gale blinks in the sunlight for a second while his eyes adjust to the brightness, then he takes the stairs two at a time. Rory crows to get his attention. Gale nods stoically in his family's direction, hoping for an orderly and understated reunion. But once he reaches solid ground, he's immediately swept up by his rowdy brothers and sister. Good thing the Undersees ducked out of the way. Katniss only had Prim to contend with, but Gale has these three scamps.

Posy leaps at Gale when he's barely managed to get out of the Hobgoblin, but she's twice as big as she used to be. She knocks the air out of him when she faceplants against his stomach and grips him around the middle like a vice.

_Oof!_ Her wiry little arms sure have a strong grip. "Posy!" he gasps. He makes the mistake of exhaling, which allows her to squeeze him tighter like a boa constrictor.

"You're home! You're home!" she chants excitedly while he gets vision spots.

Yeah, and he's now seriously reconsidering the wisdom of this decision. He chooses to blame it on Madge for bewitching him. Especially when Rory and Vick hold an unspoken contest to see who can pound his back harder. He'd never sign up for this kind of abuse. And since when did Vick have biceps or know how to throw a punch? The kid always got his nose wiped in the dirt at school, and Rory and Gale had to dust him off and take care of the bullies. But one wouldn't know it from the very real – ow – force he's using right between Gale's shoulder blades.

"He's so clean and shiny," Rory says to Vick, teasingly as he gets Gale in the kidney.

"Smells good too," Vick remarks with a wry curve on his lips, "that's a nice change around here."

"All right, knuckleheads," Gale grouses, still being suffocated by Posy and having his teeth jarred by the thumping on his back. "Cut it out."

Rory laughs. "Make us, Shorty."

"I'm still taller, stronger and meaner than you," Gale boasts, though Rory gives him a pretty good thump on the back that makes his head snap back. Darn kid.

Rory's about as tall as Gale now, just eighteen years old. He's a little unnerved when he remembers that that's how old _he_ had been when the Capitol reaped Katniss and their lives changed so dramatically. He didn't think he looked as young as Rory does. And then there's Vick, seventeen, who had been standing quietly next to their mother during the landing. He's the most sensitive and serious of his brothers – of all the kids – but you couldn't tell right now. Posy's as high-strung as Gale used to be. She's nearly eleven and looking more like Hazelle every day. That's worries Gale quite a bit. He'll have to speak to Rory about keeping a sharp eye on her.

"Vick, Rory, let your brother alone."

Hazelle approaches Gale slowly, wearing a pretty kind of dress that he always associated with the ones Mrs. Everdeen kept hidden away when they were younger. He'd seen a lot fancier, but on his mother it looked almost formal. It feels nice to think that she could buy herself something like that now. Her hair shows the first signs of gray Gale's ever seen though, and her pale eyes water. He thinks the latter that might be his fault.

Rory and Vick have the sense to get out of their mother's way. Hazelle pries Posy off of Gale and then she clasps his face between her soap-and-water-rough hands.

"Hh," he greets between squished cheeks.

"Don't you _ever_ wait this long to come home again," Hazelle admonishes, never blinking her stern, gray eyes. "Do you hear me, Gale?"

Gale feels the alarming hint of a blush creeping up his neck. "Shrry, Mhm."

Like Posy, Hazelle hugs him tight enough to crack a rib and Gale lets her. When she lets go, she wipes her eyes, making him feel like a two-inch-tall jerk. Albeit, deserved.

"We've discussed it. Vick will stay in Posy's room, so you can have his bed," Hazelle tells him, getting down to business now that the emotional nonsense is out of the way. "Posy will stay with me."

"I have pink sheets," Posy giggles, making Vick scowl at her. She grabs Gale's hand, just like years ago after she annoyed the younger boys. He was always base, like when they played tag. Her brothers couldn't touch her if Gale was around.

"I'm sharing with Rory," Vick grumbles.

"Who cares if she has pink sheets. We didn't win this war so I could go back to sleeping with your knees in my back, Daisy-May," Rory snipes.

"Rorimack-mouth-breather."

Rory thwaps Vick upside the head.

"_Boys,"_ says Hazelle, putting an end to the bickering.

Gale glances in Madge's direction. Henry and Madge stick closely to the hovercraft and luggage, trying to politely pretend that they aren't eavesdropping on the Hawthorne family reunion. He frowns before he has to disappoint Hazelle.

"Look, Mom, Vick can keep his room." All four of their heads snap to attention. "Er, I'm staying at that new hotel you told me about."

Hazelle stares at him in surprise. "But why?" she asks. "We have room and it's so expensive to stay there."

Gale runs his fingers through his hair, scrunching it in the back. "Well…this is just a short visit. It won't cost that much," he says, glancing at the hovercraft again. "I'd stay with you, but I'm not alone."

Hazelle's perceptive eyes scan the young woman who Gale's eyes keep wandering back to. "And who's that?"

Gale glances back over his shoulder, then clears his throat. "Uh. You remember the Undersees," he says stupidly. Of course she remembers the freaking _mayor._ He tucks Hazelle's arm through his and leads her toward them. Posy trips along beside them, still holding Gale's other hand. Madge smiles shyly when they're near.

"Mom, this is Henry Undersee," he says. "Henry, this is my mother, Hazelle Hawthorne."

Henry holds out his hand to shake Hazelle's. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am. Gale has told us quite a bit about your family."

Hazelle is a bit thrown off by Henry's formality, and perhaps by the fact that he was once the mayor. The only time he'd ever shaken her hand was after her husband had been killed. But she gives him a gracious smile and welcomes him back to the district.

Gale touches his mother's shoulder to direct her attention to Henry's daughter, saying, "And this is Madge Undersee."

Hazelle studies Madge closely. "I think I remember seeing you once or twice in the Seam," she says thoughtfully. "With Katniss. I thought you were Prim the first time, although you were taller."

"You have a good memory. Katniss took me to the woods with her and we had to cut through the Seam." Madge turns her smile on Gale, "I'm hoping to see more of them this week."

If Hazelle had any suspicions about Gale and this young woman, they are confirmed by this. She waves over her other two boys who have been standing off to the side.

"These are my sons, Vick and Rory, and my daughter Posy."

Henry shakes hands with them, and then Madge holds out her hand to do the same. Vick looks like he's never seen a woman's fingers before. Rory smirks and doesn't let go until Gale thwaps _him_ upside the head.

"I like your dress," Posy croons, which is a welcome distraction for Madge from the mildly violent nonverbal communication between the Hawthorne boys.

"Thank you," Madge replies with one of her slightly confused smiles. "You have a pretty dress too…and I have just the thing…"

Madge fishes around in her purse before pulling out one of the ribbons she bought as a gift for his little sister. It's purple, just like the little flowers on Posy's cotton print dress.

"For your hair," Madge explains.

Posy's eyes grow round like saucers. "For me?"

"Can I help you put it in your hair?" Madge asks.

Posy turns around for Madge to gather her blue-black hair into a ponytail and tie the ribbon around it. When she finishes, Posy turns around so Hazelle and her brothers can see. The boys are not impressed.

"You look very nice," Hazelle tells Posy, though she glances up at Madge with amusement. "Now, what do you say to Madge?"

"Thank you for my ribbon." Posy beams as she fingers the knot of satin at the back of her head.

"I hope you'll both have dinner with us tonight," Hazelle says to Henry. "The Everdeens will be there. I'm sure you remember Katniss's mother and sister."

"We'd be delighted," Henry replies after a nod from Madge. "Mrs. Everdeen was a childhood friend of my late wife's."

"Well, we'd better show you where you're going then," Hazelle continues. She turns to Gale. "Of course, we'll have to show you our new place, but you'll want to see the hotel first."

"That's right," Gale replies, shouldering his bag. "We want to drop off our things before we do anything else."

"Boys, help the Undersees with their luggage," Hazelle orders.

Henry and Madge try to protest, but their luggage makes it halfway across the landing pad without anyone paying attention to them. Henry shrugs and offers Madge his arm. Posy snatches Madge's free hand, which means she's found a new best friend.

Gale frowns as Madge gets snapped up by everyone out from under him, but shrugs it off and starts walking with his mother. They fall behind a ways, but Posy seems to know where she's going and his brothers aren't that far ahead, so he lets it happen. Besides, he needs to talk to his mother.

"So, what's it really like living here now?" Gale asks. "Your letters were sort of vague."

Hazelle looks over at him with an arched brow. "You mean you actually read them?"

"Just because I didn't always reply doesn't mean I didn't read them," he grumbles, attacking the hair on the back of his head. She probably thinks her letters are all in a pile in a mailbox somewhere.

"Stop that," Hazelle orders. "It makes your hair look a mess."

Gale drops his hand. "So?"

"So…it's different here." Hazelle sighs. "Emptier. A bit chaotic with the clearing away and building. But…I don't know how to describe it. I suppose it feels like we don't have to hold our breaths all the time."

Gale nods.

"The indoor plumbing certainly doesn't hurt either," she continues with a laugh.

Gale grins. "Sitting in the lap of luxury."

"We are," Hazelle agrees with a small smile. "The boys have taken to carpentry, though I don't know if Rory will stick with it. Posy has school to keep her busy now and there are plenty of construction workers who are willing to pay for laundry services. I'm satisfied."

"Good."

They walk on through the dusty road leading toward the new buildings. Gale shoves his hands in his pockets while he takes it all in. The few new roads could use some trees to keep the sun from beating on everything. In fact, he'd say the place needed more greenery in general. Maybe it wouldn't be so dusty if it had something to hold the ground together. That's something the district always needed. Ahead, the new village sticks out of the earth like a butte on a plain. Seeing it looming closer with each step makes him feel uneasy because he just doesn't know what to expect. Maybe that's what kept him away this whole time. He's from Twelve, but this place isn't his Twelve where he used to know the system, even if it had been a lousy one. Now he has no idea what the system is and how it all works. He's a stranger.

"Gale?" Hazelle murmurs, his name full of meaning.

"I don't know what my next move is, Mom," he answers the rest of that unspoken question. "It depends."

Hazelle sighs. "We're doing very well here. It's still a bit barren, but it's home." She pauses and sighs again, causing Gale to cringe. "But it doesn't feel right when you're gone."

"I know you want to keep the family together, but—"

"Not just for my sake, Gale," she tells him. "Your brothers and sister need you too. And I'm worried about you. Gale, you've been running from one thing to the next ever since the war. That can't be good for you."

"I'm not running around anymore."

Hazelle gazes thoughtfully ahead, willing to let him have this round. He'll be her captive audience for the rest of the week anyway. "So, you've brought your friends."

Gale clears his throat. "Yeah."

Hazelle laughs. "You aren't going to admit anything, are you?"

"I don't have to," he groans. "You always guess."

"That's my job," she says, patting him on the back.

"It's scary."

Hazelle just shakes her head and lets him keep himself to himself. She never did push him, even if her letters could sometimes come across a bit strong.

"Catch up, slowcoaches!" Rory yells back.

Gale and Hazelle both pick up the pace. The road narrows as it heads into the development. A boardwalk begins where the first building stands leading into the square. Gale and his mother soon overtake the Undersees and Hawthorne kids. They're in time to hear Madge explaining the role of the District Outreach Office in supplying the construction companies in District 12 with lumber, bricks and other supplies needed to rebuild. Anything from nails to guns to generators are approved and moved through their hands.

"After the war, it wasn't clear who owned what. The Capitol, of course, controlled the industry in every district beforehand. In order to keep industries running and workers paid, the new government still maintains that control until they can come up with a democratic method to open up these companies to workers who can then become shareholders and have a say in how the businesses run."

"When will that happen?" Rory asks thoughtfully. "As far as we know, nobody's even _talked_ about reopening the mines out here. It's like Twelve just fell off the map."

Madge shakes her head. "I'm not sure, Rory. Unfortunately, the only people who can afford shares right now are the jerks who oppressed the districts to begin with. We maintain the contracts between districts so that everything is distributed properly, but we don't involve ourselves directly in the industry."

"What do they expect us to do then?" Rory grouses. "If folks keep building out here but can't make any money, we'll be worse off then before the war."

"That, unfortunately, is true," Henry says cryptically.

Rory's eyebrows furrow angrily. "What I want to know is—"

Gale clears his throat and everyone looks back at him. "Maybe some other time," he says to Rory. "Madge is supposed to be on vacation this week, not holding an expo for her office."

Rory shrugs indifferently and keeps plodding on down the boardwalk. Eventually the buildings on each side of the road fall away to the new square. Some of the lots still stand empty, while others have signs and clean windows and merchandise. Gale marvels at the brightly painted doors and pristine facades. It's nothing like the faded and worn-down square he remembers. There's a post office, grocery store and Peeta's empty bakery. Even a butcher shop, but he doesn't glance inside to see if Rooba made it or not. Lists were made at one time with the names of district survivors, but he never could finish reading them.

"This is near the spot where the sweet shop used to be, I think," says Madge sadly as she passes in front of a green door.

It opens and a woman with blond hair scraped into a bun on top of her head steps out with a broom in her hand to clean off her section of the sidewalk. She steps back into the doorway to let them pass, nodding in greeting.

"Hazelle," she says. "Warm day, isn't it?"

Hazelle nods graciously. "Good afternoon, Dinah. The breeze is coming out of the south."

Gale cranes his head around to look again. "Is that Mrs. Prewitt? Her family owned the hardware store," he says when they're out of earshot. "You speak to her?"

"Her family still owns the hardware store," Hazelle replies casually, pointing at the window display of home repair kits. "As you can imagine, they're doing a good bit of business."

Gale gapes at her. "Her husband tried to thrash me once when I came in to trade a couple blackbirds for hammer. He didn't give me time to explain that I had something to pay with. After that I always went to the Hob for broken tools."

"We're a smaller community now, Gale," Hazelle reminds him. "It's different. Nobody really thinks of anyone as a townie or from the Seam."

"She means we're _all_ poor now," Rory gripes. "No matter where we live."

Gale gives him a stern look. "I thought your carpentry apprenticeship was going well, though."

"Apprentices don't make anything." He shrugs.

"Meaning, Rory _spends_ anything he does make," Vick chimes in.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"_Boys_."

Henry and Madge stop suddenly and Gale has to pull up short to avoid plowing into them.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Well, I'll be darned," says Henry. "That's a sight."

"That's the New Inn," Posy whispers loudly. "It's like a palace."

Gale doubts that, but it does look nice.

The New Inn is a two-story whitewashed wooden pile facing into the square, situated in the exact spot where the Justice Building used to loom over the cobbled court. A bunch of terracotta flower pots line the edge of the long covered porch, filled to bursting with yellow and orange marigolds, and some with red and yellow centers. Cheery.

Madge follows Henry up the three steps into the shade of the porch. It's lined with rocking chairs and a bench swing at the end. Three ceiling fans swirl the warm air around over their heads.

"This couldn't create a more opposite and inviting atmosphere than that awful building," Henry remarks. He stands in the center of the porch with a stony expression on his face, no doubt remembering the years he spent in the confines of the Justice Building, dispensing the Capitol's so-called justice.

The Hawthornes wait outside in the chairs while Gale and the Undersees check in with their bags. The warm September air stops at the threshold of the dim lobby. A long desk commands the center of the room with stairs leading to the second story rooms on its right and a hallway leading back to the kitchen and dining room to the left. No one's commanding the desk, and Gale's just about to shout for someone when Madge points out the bell.

Gale eyes it with disfavor. "Fancy."

Madge rolls her eyes and rings it. "You said you liked fancy."

"Hang on out there!" A blond man who's thin as a rail and twice as tall appears. Madge leans into Gale to whisper that she recognizes him as the old deputy who used to work for her father. He approaches from a back room, coming around the desk. Before looking up, he pulls out a plastic bin full of hats, throws one on that reads _Manager_ above the brim and then finally extends his hand in welcome to his hotel.

"Bless my soul. Is this Mr. Undersee?" he exclaims with genuine delight once he's bothered to actually look at his guests. "I wondered if you'd ever come back. How are you, sir?" The man shakes hands with Madge's father.

"Tolerably well," Henry replies. "Good to see you, Knotts. What's the news around here?"

Knotts taps his nose and shrugs. "We've been busy. I'm a member of the district council, hotel manager, fire brigade, and I run the bingo club." He jabs his thumb at the bucket of hats. "Bureaucracy around here dictates that I wear appropriate dress for each one."

"That's a lot," says Henry sympathetically.

"Well, we had no idea you were coming back," Mr. Knotts says brightly.

Henry nods. "Just a short visit with my daughter. You remember Margaret?"

The hat on Knott's head lifts a bit, like his eyebrows pushed it up. "Of course. How are you, young lady? Quite grown up." Before Madge can form a polite reply, Knotts rushes to the banister along the stairs. "Just wait till my sister…Maudie?" he shouts, "Maudie! Get down here! Look who's turned up."

Quick footsteps patter down the floorboards upstairs as a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her blond hair appears at the top. With a feather duster in one hand and a small trash bag in the other, she stares down at the group at the front desk. "Well, I'll be," she breathes. "It can't be the old mayor, can it?"

Henry gapes. He stares like the feather duster just told him the time. Eventually, he clears his throat. "Hello, Miss Knotts. Er, Maudie. Er, what a lovely…hotel."

Gale glances at Madge who blinks back at him. She shrugs.

Maudie discards the feather duster and trash bag, then smoothes the fabric of the cotton smock buttoned over her dress. "Thank you," she says as she descends the stairs. "We're rather proud of it. You look well."

Henry's ears turn pink. He's at a loss to reply, so he doesn't.

"Hello, Madge," Maudie says with a warm smile, unperturbed by Henry's behavior. She turns her eyes on Gale and he's surprised to see that they're gray rather than blue. "And who's this young man?"

"I don't suppose you ever met my boyfriend," says Madge. "This is Gale Hawthorne."

Maudie's odd eyes light up with recognition. "The hero of District 12."

Gale swallows, understanding Henry's discomfort all of a sudden.

"Gale, this is Maudie Knotts," Madge continues. "She worked as my father's secretary."

"Pleased to know you," Gale says, shaking her hand.

"Likewise," says Maudie. "Welcome back."

"Thanks."

Then she turns to Henry, saying, "We began to fear that you'd never come back."

Henry twiddles his thumbs behind his back. "Well, it's been a difficult few years."

Maudie nods gravely. "We heard about poor Marigold. I'm so sorry for you both," she says, giving Madge's shoulder a squeeze.

Brother Knotts sputters back into motion, as though recalling something. "We've put in a district memorial garden where your house used to stand," he explains to the Undersees, more enthusiastic than rational. "You'll want to see it, of course. Come with me."

For an awkward moment Madge and Maudie both hesitate, before Madge steps in to save her father from an uncomfortable situation. "Perhaps some other time, Mr. Knotts." She tucks her arm protectively around her father's. "We only just arrived—"

Henry brushes her away. "Nonsense, Margaret, I would like to see the memorial very much," he tells the Knotts. "Lead the way." He holds his arm out for Maudie before turning to Madge. "Coming?"

"No, thank you," Madge says weakly.

Madge watches them walk out of the hotel with obvious concern on her face. She takes a step toward the door, but doesn't make it farther than the bags they left on the floor.

Gale comes up behind her, squeezing her arm. "He'll be alright." In fact, it seems to Gale that she's the one having trouble with the idea of some memorial where her house used to be.

"And if he isn't all right?" She bites the inside of her cheek to stave off the sudden anxiety.

Gale turns her toward him and gently squeezes her arms. "Well, then he has two of us watching out for him." Out of sensitivity to Madge, he refrains from pointing out the noticeable spark between Henry and his old secretary, which seems to suggest that a third person might have an interest, as well. "And I'm watching out for you."

Madge's eyes water. "Thank you."

"I'm more worried about your father walking off with the people who are supposed to give us rooms," Gale jokes, lifting a heavy eyebrow toward the desk. "Do you think Henry'll be upset if we change the reservation to only two?"

"Of course not," she replies with a knowing smile, finding her sense of humor again. "He'd love to have you for a roommate. It will save money."

Gale's smile droops. "Not what I had in mind."

"You can stay up all night playing Rob the Hob and telling each other secrets." Madge laughs, feeling much better at Gale's expense.

"Hurrah," he mutters.

Madge pats his cheek. He waves her off and reaches over the counter for the register showing the diagram of available rooms. "We could just sign ourselves in," he says. Then he looks up with a wolfish grin. "Honeymoon suite."

He turns the register over for her to see.

Madge folds her arms across her chest, squints at the register, then laughs. "It's already reserved," she points out.

Gale's eyebrows scrunch together. "What? For who?"

Madge points to the corner of the square indicating Room 306. "Mr. and Mrs. R. W., see?"

Gale snorts unhappily, then his eyes widen. "Wait, they're not booked until the end of the week—hold on a minute. What are you giggling at?"

Madge bites down hard on her bottom lip, but laughter keeps escaping. "N-nothing."

"_Madge_," he growls in warning.

Madge covers her lower face with her hands, eyes trying desperately not to give anything away but it's no good.

Gale crosses his arms and gives her a stern look. "Out with it."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," she garbles into her hands.

"What?" He peels her hands away so that he can hear her clearly.

"The r-room."

Gale studies her carefully, which causes her to nervously fiddle with her hair. "Madge, who booked that room?" he asks steadily.

"Um, good question," she says breezily. "Ha ha."

He nearly steps on her toes as he inches closer to loom over her. "Do you know who R. W. is?"

"Um," Madge swallows, "Maybe Reginald Winterbottom?"

"Reginald Winterbottom?" he repeats with complete surprise.

She shrugs. "Maybe he found a wife after all?"

Gale gives her a shrewd look and she gives him a crooked smile, complete with her nose wrinkled up in embarrassment.

"Maybe if you ask very nicely," she teases, tapping his chest with her finger, "he'll let you trade rooms? If you want."

"That depends," Gale's voice reverberates in the scant space between them. "Does the room come with Mrs. Winterbottom?"

Madge laughs, a low sound in the back of her throat. "I doubt she'd have you."

Gale grabs Madge wrist, pulling her flush against him for a kiss, which seems to suggest that he believes she _will_ have him. Madge yields and lets him part her lips…

Footsteps over the floorboards announce the arrival of another person in the lobby. Gale shoots an annoyed glare toward the door while his lips are still playing with Madge's. It's his sister. He didn't reckon he'd been back long enough for her to start bugging him, but he figured wrong.

Posy Hawthorne puts her hands on her narrow hips, and says in a matriarchal tone, "_Gale_, Mom wants to know why you're still in here when the Knotts have gone." And then she squints her eyes at the gloomy room and says, "What are you doing?"

Gale pulls away from Madge and clears his throat. "Scram, kiddo."

"Not until you come," she snipes. When she doesn't leave, Gale kisses Madge again, with sound effects.

"Ew." Posy grimaces, sticks out her tongue, then spins around to go tell on them.

Madge steps away from Gale, fixing her hair. "Was that really necessary?"

Gale smirks, making a grab for her. "Yep."

"_Gale,"_ Madge scolds while rolling her eyes. "How old _is _your sister?"

Gale purses his lips, doing the necessary calculations in his head. "About eleven."

"We've ruined her," Madge groans, pulling away from his grabby hands. "We'll check in later. Let's not keep your family waiting." Then she adds, "You know, I think your mother suspects that we're together – I have a feeling Posy's about to confirm it."

"That's obvious." Gale laughs, picking up their things to pile behind the desk until they come back. "But I bet she doesn't know we're here to announce a toasting."

Madge grows quiet again. He straightens up when the last bag's in place. She's staring out of one of the windows. The tip of her tongue smooths over her reddened lips in an artless way that Gale finds distracting.

"What are you thinking?" he asks her.

"Gale," she says pensively. "If this trip goes well…maybe we'll come back here?"

Gale's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "To live?"

Madge nods. "With Katniss and Peeta here eventually, and your family, too," she says. "I didn't expect to feel this way, but now that we're really here and seeing it again, well, it's home." She shrugs. "Maybe."

"What about your career, Madge?" he has to ask. "You don't want to throw that away, do you?"

Madge gives him a sheepish look. "Would this be a bad time to tell you that I gave notice?"

Gale looks confused. "Did you have something else lined up?"

"I've thought about that… and I talked to Peeta. I'll have an aneurism if I work for Haymitch much longer." She says self-consciously, "I've been thinking about reopening the sweet shop my family used to own. Peeta and I want to go into business together."

Gale kisses her forehead. "Well, it's an idea." He'll give her his conditions later – no living above the sweet shop. His manhood would die if his brothers started calling him the candy man.

"And you'll have the woods to keep you busy," she adds quickly, holding is arm. "With all the building around here, I bet they'd like a surveyor they know and trust."

"You've got this all worked out," Gale quips. "You know, I thought I'd have to convince _you_."

Madge blushes. "Well?"

Gale isn't Bristel. He doesn't want his kids learning about the trees through storybook pictures or thinking they come in pots. He's tired of breathing canned air. Even with nineteen years of bad District 12 memories up his sleeve, living with Madge in these rural foothills would be an improvement over living in the woods with the Flannel Shirt Squad or living in the sewers of Thirteen with a fancy job.

And maybe it has a lot to do with coming home and the autumn and the way Madge looks at him, but he has a feeling that this is just the end to the story that he wants.

* * *

><p><strong>The End!<strong>


End file.
